MAKING LOVE TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN ON A SUNDAY MORNING
[Short Fiction – A Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I love making love on a Sunday morning.
I make love to a beautiful woman on Sunday morning – yes, I make love to her with my eyes.
Here is how we make love.
Tell me, what does a beautiful woman do when a handsome young man looks at her in an insistent, lingering sort of way, which is worth a hundred compliments?
I’ll tell you what she does.
First, she realizes I am looking at her, then she accepts being looked at and finally she begins to look at me in return.
Suddenly her eyes become hard and she grills me with a stern stare that makes me uncomfortable.
Scared and discomfited, I quickly avert my eyes and try to disappear into the crowd. I feel ashamed of having eyed her so blatantly. ‘What will she think of me?’ I wonder.
But soon, by instinct and almost against my will, my eyes begin searching, trying to find her again.
Ah, there she is. She stands at the fruit-stall, buying fruit.
She is an exquisite beauty – tall, fair and freshly bathed, her luxuriant black hair flows down her back, her sharp features accentuated by the morning sun, her nose slightly turned up, so slender and transparent, as though accustomed to smelling nothing but perfumes.
I am mesmerized.
Never before has anyone evoked such a delightful electric tremor of thrilling sensation in me.
An unknown force propels me towards the fruit-stall.
I stand near her and made pretence of choosing a papaya, trying to look at her with sidelong glances when I think she isn’t noticing.
She notices.
She looks at me.
Her eyes are extremely beautiful – enormous, dark, expressive.
Suddenly her eyes began to dance, and seeing the genuine admiration in my eyes, she gives me smile so captivating that I experience a delightful twinge in my heart.
She selects a papaya and extends her hands to give it to me.
Our fingers touch.
The feeling is electric. It is sheer ecstasy. I feel so good that I wish time would stand still.
I can’t begin to describe the sensation I feel deep within me.
I try to smile.
She communicates an unspoken good-bye with her eyes and briskly walks away.
Three months have passed. She has never misses her Sunday morning love date with me, same time, same place, every Sunday – at precisely Seven o’clock in the morning.
But, my dear Reader, do you know that not a word has been exchanged between us.
We just make love every Sunday morning using the language of our eyes and part with an unspoken good-bye.
Once I was slightly late for our rendezvous.
I could see her eyes desperately searching for me.
And when her eyes found me, her eyes danced with delight, and began making love to my eyes.
Tell me, is there any love making that can surpass our fascinating alluring love making?
It feels like the supreme bliss of non-alcoholic intoxication.
Should I speak to her?
I do not know.
Why doesn’t she speak to me?
I do not know.
Does one have to speak to express love? Are words from the mouth the only way to communicate love?
Maybe we both want our beautiful romance to remain this way.
Our silent love making with our eyes – so lovely, so esoteric, so exquisite, so pristine, so divine, so fragile, so delicate, so sensitive, so delicately poised.
Just one word would spoil everything, destroy our enthralling state of trancelike bliss, and bring everything crashing down from supreme ecstasy to harsh ground reality.
I think it’s best to let our exquisite Sunday morning love making go on for ever and ever, till eternity.
What do you feel, Dear Reader?
How long should we go making love like this?
Tell me, should I make a move, talk to her, break the spell?
I’ll do exactly as you say.
Till then, I will make love to the beautiful woman every Sunday morning – yes, I’ll make love to her with my eyes.
MAKING LOVE TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN ON A SUNDAY MORNING
[Short Fiction – A Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
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