writing

Desert Dreams

Out of the urban jungle she emerged – this wild woman, with a wicked spark in her eyes, and hunger dripping from her slightly parted lips. The attraction was inescapable. It was time. The desert was beckoning the touch of her bare feet and sound of her honey-soaked laughter.

She drifted into the desert, her hair disheveled, her dark, naked skin adorned with paint and glitter, her callused feet gently caressing the earth and her arms stretched over her head, waving to the distant sounds crawling through speakers and seeping into her bones. She glided by figures clad in a lack of inhibition and ornate structures that loomed over her with whimsical allure. She moved in a steady rhythm until something, someone off in the distance captured her attention and slowed her gait. It was someone familiar. Someone she recognized. Someone she once knew. She pawed at the dusty haze trying to catch his eye. He was with another woman – a tantalizing minx, whose cloak of mystery was positively enchanting. But for a brief moment – a reflexive response to a feeling of recognition – she felt his eyes meet hers. It was a moment of passion, of appreciation, of reflection of where they had been, what they had shared, and what could have been. That moment, however brief it may have been, wrapped her in a blanket of reverie, as the rest of the world bustled by. When the dust settled, and the tears that flooded her eyes migrated to the apples of her cheeks, he was no longer in sight. He was gone. She wondered if he was ever there or if he was a figment of her unruly, rose-tinted imagination. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. She thought if she stood still she may find him again, for her ears were thirsty for the sound of his rambling musings and her body was aching for the touch of his dancing fingers. But seconds soon stretched into hours, each passing moment taking with it a piece of her, until she became a stranger to herself; a shell of a person who was held captive by a myth and her blind, abundant optimism. Feeling the energy of the earth and the spirit of the wind, she began wandering once more. Other than the scent of her skin that was suspended in the air, she left nothing behind. No trace, no letter, no lingering threads. Just an aromatic note, a sweet punctuation to an unfinished story. 

Meena Kaushik