Ode to Lata by Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla Read Free Book Online Page A

wanting to go fuck some other guy.  Repented for crying.  For questioning.  For my very existence.  One more chance was all I was asking for.  I’d discipline myself not to act needy or give him a hard time about other men or for flaking out on me at the last moment to accommodate someone else.
    Somehow, he must have felt sorry for me because he said, “Look, what time is it?”
    “Uh-I think about seven… ”
    “Well,” he paused for a moment.  “We can still make the eight o’clock show.”
    I started to cry again, uncontrollably so, only this time it was out of gratitude.  I’d been forgiven.  Redeemed from myself.  It was as if somebody had his finger primed on the nuclear button, a little red one as is popularly imagined, and had decided to postpone the meltdown so he could enjoy a last cigarette. 
    You see, you fool, he does love you.  He’s coming back to spend time with you, and everything will go back to normal.
    “Don’t cry, it’s okay.  I’ll be there soon,” he said, his voice resounding with a tenderness that I feared I had killed.
    Wiping the tears from my eyes, I began to smile.  Everything would be alright.  He had said so himself.
    Thank you… Thank you…
 
    The Richard who showed up at my doorstep was different.
    I’m not quite sure what I’d been expecting.  Maybe a Richard that was ingratiated and expected me to feel indebted to his mercy.  The Richard that had made me suffer.  Resentful.  Unyielding.  Begrudging.  But this Richard looked down at me tenderly when I opened the door.  I threw my arms around him and tried hard not to cry. 
I must act composed.  Everything has to appear normal.  Must make it fun for him to be here with me.  Regain some of my integrity so that I don’t appear completely worthless to him… .
    Here came the calm after the storm.  The best few hours we would share.  The ones that would comprise our most intimate memories in the future.  We had paid dearly for these moments.  Lacerated each other.  Now, as had been anticipated, came the sweet rewards to revel in.
    What had just happened here?
    What had we been trying to do to each other?
      Questions raced through my mind unanswered.
    Nothing seemed to make any sense anymore.  I’m not sure if we even wanted to make any sense of it.  The important thing was that we had reached such moments of kindness after we had wounded each other.  Neither one of us, it seemed, knew of any other way to get to this place.
    During the movie he held my hand.  And when we walked back to his car, he held me close to him without a care as to who might have been watching in Westwood village.  I felt like a baby that had been pacified by his parent.  His solace came from the knowledge that he had hurt me and successfully managed to reclaim my devotion by taking the pain away.
    When we lay in my bed, with only the moonlight illuminating us, he started to cry and I was confounded.  I asked him what was wrong.  He kept saying that he loved me and promised to treat me better.  “You’ll see,” he said, sliding his arms possessively under me and kissing my forehead gently.  “You’ll see how different it’s going to be.”
    Can’t say that I really believed him.  But at that moment, with his surrender so complete and his eagerness in such garish contrast to his earlier mood, I would have accepted any promise, heard any confession, absolved any sin. There was such an innocence about him, he became like a rebellious child who had realized his belligerence and returned to the comforting bosom of his parent.  Our roles were constantly being turned inside out and backward.
    We held each other so tightly that it hurt.  I found it difficult to breathe, his body compressed against mine, my rib cage encased by his strong arms.  It was in the fervor of this embrace that I sought my hope and sensed his apology.  Here was the completion, the consummation that went far beyond that of sex.  We