She glanced at her watch. No, it had been seven days, twelve hours and fifty minutes. To be a bit more precise. Not really precise. To be really precise, she would have to go into seconds. She considered whether it would be too anal to delve into that. “Is something wrong?” his voice woke her from her momentary lapse. She should not let it bother her. Eight days ago – we are back to being imprecise now – she had decided that she could live without it for eight days. And she was almost there. Just this dinner and then the night and then by mid-morning, she would have it. Again. Available. Anywhere. Anytime.

She hated being so addicted. As a kid, she had heard stories about alcoholics. How they had no control over their lives. How they squandered their money, beat their wives and eventually ended up bankrupt and homeless. She had read about drug addicts in the newspapers. She had wondered why anyone would voluntarily give up control over their own bodies, their own selves. How anyone could give in to hallucinations and speed trips and be at the mercy of dealers. She had scorned at smokers and the scary statistics about the damage done to children because of the parents’ chain smoking. In fact, she had even helped out in the Quit Smoking campaign in her office, all the while not quite understanding why people couldn’t wake up one morning and kick the habit. In fact, she abhorred addictions of all kind.

She refused to admit that she was addicted. She stared into his deep dark eyes and tried to think of the eight blissful days they had just had. She wanted to focus on the beautiful beaches they had lounged in, the charming chateaus they had slept in and the quaint French streets they had wandered in. But she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about. And that led her back to it. Maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of it too. No, this is anal. She chided herself. It is just 8 hours, 7 minutes and 12 seconds more. Oh darn, she had done it. Precision was a sure give away for obsession.

“Cafe, mademoiselle?” she was jolted out of her trance again. She resolved she won’t let herself be addicted. She won’t think about it anymore. She will have some good coffee and then, some fine conversation will now follow. She will look around and enjoy the wonderful art that was on display at the restaurant. She will have a wonderful time. She imagined a thick black blanket in her mind. She covered her obsession in it, tied with a thick blue rope, placed into an solid copper box, closed it with its ornate heavy lid and pushed it into a dark corner of her mind. Not to be opened again. Until it was time.

And then, it was time. 8 hours, 7 minutes and 12 seconds were over. She clicked on the small orange icon with the three small men. She entered the eight magical numbers, clicked OK and waited. She felt the joy of watching a lotus blossom. And then there was light. You have new mail. Happiness. Bliss. Joy. Contentment. Was it wrong to feel happy? She looked across the table. His face radiated the happiness too. He looked up and smiled.

Some obsessions are just not worth fighting.

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***

With a tequila sunrise in her hand the same colour as the auburn hair hanging down her shoulders, she stood out like sunbeam in the middle of a darkened room. Elegantly draped in a red chiffon dress that flowed down to just above her calves, there was something mesmerising about the way she held her drink, while swaying slightly in her high bar stool.

At five foot four, and less than a hundred pounds, petite might be the first word that comes up in your mind. Yet, if you could look into her eyes – unapologetically dark and sharp, like rough coal waiting to be polished or to burn red in the consuming fire of passion – you might be inclined to agree that fiery would be a better choice.

***

She bent down to sip a drink from the glass she held in her long well-manicured hands. She turned her face towards him and her moist red lips glistened playfully in the ever changing shades of the disco lights. Her thin long neck seemed to play hide and seek from behind the red brown curls that tossed about as she sashayed.

His broad chest heaved under the heavy groan of the music that pervaded the room. He ran his hands through his tousled dark hair and gave in to a mischievous grin.

300 words. End of assignment 3.

A world of endless possibilities. Tomorrow is, after all, another day.

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Tweety is a fellow resident in my apartment building and has her nest just outside my bedroom. Because she reminds me of Tweety in Jamba’s ringtone ad and because I am rather unimaginative when it comes to christening birds, shes called Tweety. Tweety and I are good neighbours – even though she does not take any of the food crumbs I offer her, we have an agreement that she doesn’t wake me up with her cries before 7 am and I in turn don’t do anything to harm her nest.

Afterall, I do understand how much the nest means to her. She started building it a short while after I moved in here. While I sat by the window sewing the curtain edges, she would fly back and forth collecting small twigs for her nest. I moved to hanging the pictures, assembling the tables, fixing the beds – and she kept going at collecting her twigs. Even when I took my breaks and even after I eventually finished my moving in, she kept at it. Until she had built for herself a beautiful intricate little nest.

But as it turned out, it was not just for her. Tweety soon had a tweety Jr. – happened while I was away at work or while I was sleeping, but one fine day she was way too possessive of her nest and made too much noise when I opened my bedroom window. And then I saw that she had a new little fella to take care of. Oh well, Tweety dint trust me anymore. Her precious new born was too precious to trust her implicit arrangements with a silly human. I kept away – I can live with opening just one of my bedroom windows.

Over the weeks, Tweety was obsessed with Tweety Jr. – she was forever bringing him little tidbits of food and fighting over every little insect that came near him. She nurtured him, like only a mother can. One day, I saw she had a broken leg, probably fighting with a bird that came too near her precious. Tweety and I grew apart – apart from giving her a name, there was nothing I could do to make her my pet – and I was getting bored over her over possessiveness too – she wouldn’t even let me have a long peek at Tweety Jr.

Until today,when she broke our norms of good neighbourhood and seemed to be crying her heart out early in the morning. There was a certain hollowness in her cry – it dint sound like a Jamba ringtone anymore. I went to the window to check and I saw what had happened – she was alone in her nest. Tweety Jr. had grown his wings and flown away. To the unknown. And Tweety seemed to be inconsolably crying out loud, way too loud. In an attempt to pacify her and get back to my sleep, I put some bread crumbs and a bowl of water at my window sill. For the first time ever, Tweety gave in and had some of my food. She seemed a bit consoled. We seemed to share a special bond again.

I smiled at the cruelty of nature and the inevitability of her rules. And I shed a silent tear – for the goodbyes I have said in my own life.

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