Listen, We Need To Talk

It was half past two in the morning when Tanya turned on the bedside lamp, blinding me instantly. She had that sharp, determined gaze usually reserved for interrogating suspects.

“Listen, we need to talk,” she declared, her voice dropping into a thrillingly grave register.

My heart did a quick somersault. I rubbed my eyes, sitting up straight. Was this about my habit of leaving my reading glasses in the refrigerator? Or perhaps the time I accidentally washed her silk scarf with my gym gear?

“What happened?” I asked, attempting to sound calm and innocent, like a monk accused of stealing fruit.

“We cannot continue living like this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the space between us. “It is getting out of hand. You are completely ruining my reputation as a sensible person.”

I stared at her, thoroughly bewildered. “How so?”

She leaned closer, her eyes glittering with dramatic intensity. “Do you have any idea what you did this evening? You walked into the kitchen, threw a handful of coriander into a steaming pan like a grand theatre artist, and then kissed my forehead while I was trying to measure rice. I forgot the count three times. Three times!”

I smiled, feeling relief wash over me. “That is a serious offence,” I admitted softly. “I should be penalised.”

“It gets worse,” she continued, trying to suppress a grin. “You look at me across crowded rooms as if we are two spies carrying secret state documents. People are starting to think I am in a movie, and I do not have the wardrobe for a cinematic heroine.”

I took her hands in mine. They were warm, comfortable, and familiar. “If loving you is a crime, I am prepared to serve a lifetime sentence with no chance of early release.”

Tanya rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. “You are impossible. You treat ordinary weekday nights like grand festivals. I came here to deliver a stern warning, not to get swept off my feet.”

“Consider yourself officially warned,” I whispered, pulling her closer. “But the festival continues tomorrow.”

She sighed, resting her head against my shoulder as the room settled back into the quiet darkness. “I suppose I can allow a brief extension,” she murmured.

Love is a glorious catastrophe, and I was more than happy to let it run its course.

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