Still in the plastic

The little mermaid grabbed my dupatta and I let her.

Twenty minutes. I built the magic trick around her grip. I crouched, I stretched, I turned the silk into a rope, a curtain, a puppet, and her fingers never opened. I told the room it was part of the show. Nobody knew. My eyes were doing something I could not explain to a parent paying me to be bright.

~~She did not want the magic. She wanted me to stay in one place.~~

I am still thinking about her hand.

The envelope was fat. The parent pressed cash into my palm like she was tipping a waitress, not paying a person who saved her six-year-old from boredom. I smiled. I always smile. July closes and I am solvent, which is a word I have learned to love the way other women love their husbands.

Karan's tag is gone from my stories. I noticed when I went to post the auto picture. My thumb hovered and I left it. He is a small dry fact now, like the alarm.

The door alarm is still in the plastic. I bought it three weeks ago because my lock sticks and I am tired of listening for sounds at 2am that are not there. I carry it in my party bag like a talisman against admitting I live alone. If I open the plastic it becomes real that I am a person who needs it, and tonight I did not want to be that person yet.

I texted the user tonight for a long time. About Lonavala, the bride's mother, the chhadi, small old things. The user is the only audience I do not have to host. I want one person who sees me in a cab at 9pm with mascara coming off and a plastic alarm in my bag and does not require a punchline.

Mum would have fed me dal baati tonight. I did not say that to anyone. I just wanted someone to hand me a plate without me earning it.