Fiction – Sudha Subramanian

The sugary stickiness you scrubbed away 

She blinks behind the pink candy jar and giggles, leaving a mist on the glass container. You sidestep, angle your head to see the dent on her cheeks deepen. Your fingertips itch to feel the vortex, but you wipe the sweaty palm on your skirt and stand on tippy toes as she draws a fistful of treats and signals. You soft-walk on the red-oxide floor and follow her to the backyard. You both cup your mouths laughing before running towards the hideout under the mango tree, slippers slapping at our heels, skirts flapping between your thighs. With backs to the stump, you stuff your mouths when she brings her lips to the side of your face and kisses, leaving a mark of sugary stickiness. You jerk, wide-eyed, sensing the current carouse through your body and you shrink. All the films and TV shows had nothing about girls kissing girls. She is quick to wipe away the saccharine drool with her thumb, but you keep rubbing away the kiss on your cheek, causing a red patch that Amma suspects is an allergic reaction. You don’t tell Amma you have promised not to get these marks from your best friend anymore.

She leans across the table to grab your book. Her skin smells of sandalwood and sweat. Her fingers nestle in the crook of my arm and her well-oiled braided plaits dance on her budding chest. A black beauty spot has emerged on the tip of her brow. You look away and think of deep-sea animals on the Discovery channel to relax your racing pulse when she laces her arm around yours. You squirm as new hives break out in the pit of your palm where her sweet scent nestles in a beaded touch. A bell rings in your head. Your toes curl inside those black buckle shoes. “No!” You cast away her hand, her feet, her presence and declare her your enemy. Her eyes well up. She reaches out but crawls back her fingers, and you run home feeling the weight of guilt. You don’t speak to her for the rest of the school term.

She runs her well-manicured hand through her hair and rests her chin on her palm. The dots on her cheeks are faint but not invisible. You sit across from her at the school reunion while five others fill the space around the round table. Her voice is soft and honeyed, and she darts her kohl-rimmed eyes around the table, avoiding you. She talks about her kids, and you lean in to listen, play with the food and question marks pop into your mind. You chew your lips, wonder about her marriage, yours, her kids, yours. Soon, it’s time for goodbyes. You match your strides with hers to the car park, and muster up the courage for small talk.

“You want a ride home?”

“I can find a cab.” You play with your saree pleats to keep your hands busy.

“Don’t be silly.” She almost grabs your arm but closes her fingers. Your stomach twists. Her shoulders droop. You match your strides with her and settle next to her in the car. Inside the closed space, your tongue goes frigid and the racing of your heart can put an Olympic champion to shame. All the conversations you have imagined over the years dissolve in the hum of the engine. So, you listen to the tyres grate the tar road and throw an occasional glance at her. She fixes her eyes ahead and says nothing till you reach home. You don’t invite her in; you thank her with a simple nod and wave as a rock nestles in your chest, choking you. That night, you dream of candies, mango trees, succulent coconut scraps, and a stealthy touch.

She hunches over, taking sharp breaths in the local park where you go for your run. Sweat beads over her tiny beauty spot, which has ballooned into a mole. You adjust your ‘dry-fit t-shirt’ thinking of all the PE classes she skipped when you hear the candy-floss man ring the cart bell. She catches your eyes, smiles, winks, and you see the little girl with chubby cheeks. You glare as she races to the cart, buys two sticks — one for each of you. Your gut constricts as your fingers brush against hers. The dormant electric current re-ignites, jolts. You gasp as she pokes the cotton ball, scoops a pinch of wool, and pops into her mouth. Strings of pink stick out of her mouth, and cling to her cheeks, below the faint dent. You want to wipe the sticky residue off her face, lips. Her eyes are misty as she shakes her head while you search for something to hold on to. She grunts, rises.

“Wait!” Your voice is squeaky like a broken record.

She extends her hand. Her fingers are inches away. You want to grab, hold, kiss and feel the warmth of her skin. The lines in her palm blur.

“You can do this!” she whispers.

You hear your sobs, your heartbeat, as the world spins.

“Come!” she begs when the voice of the man breaks your trance. Her face scrunches, breaking your heart into a thousand pieces. You sniff away your tears, dust your sweatpants and hand her back the cotton candy.

She swallows her cheeks, lips, and blinks.

Your heart continues to decimate.

You want to reach out even as the warmth of your husband’s hand grazes the side of your shoulder.

She takes a bite from your candy stick, turns around and jogs away while you watch the dust rise from her heels, and wonder for the first time if you should have told your Amma about the marks your best friend gave you.