“What are you doing?!”
The knife slipped from his hand. But he recovered quickly — “Eating. Want?” He held the half-eaten piece out to her.
“You liar! You sent me off to steal my buns,” she pushed at his chest, sliding the tray away from him.
“I just pointed out a legitimate concern.”
Her beautiful brown eyes narrowed, making the giddy inside him skip over his heartbeats. He was too deep into the best bread of his life to care though. Atharva reached for the other slice of his bun but she slid it from under his hand. So slick.
“Iram,” he cocked his eyebrow. She stepped back before he could catch hold of her.
“Give it up,” he jumped down to his feet. She crammed a big bite into her mouth, her cheeks full like a chipmunk. Her eyes widened, “Woow, this is so gooed!” He took the split second of distraction and pulled her to his chest by the waist. She was too lost in her bread heaven to see his mouth tug the remaining piece from her hand.
Before she could react, he had gobbled it off.
“You are such a thief!” She whacked his shoulder, pushing to move away. He tightened his arm — “You partook in my contraband. Congratulations, Mrs. Thief.”
“I baked it!” She shot back, and reminded him of cookies stolen from Shiva, gobbled hidden in her attic. Atharva burst out laughing.
“What?” She grinned.
“We are still thieves in our own house.”
“Thie…” she stopped, the penny dropping. “This time, I own this lot. You stole fromme.”
“And I am nicely apologising. See?” He pecked her cheek. Then the other cheek. “Now can I have one more?”
Her face went still again, cheeks flushed, irises flaring. His own realisation came dawning, the intimacy of that second lasting a century inside him. Atharva held her gaze but she glanced away — “Are you hungry? Should I heat up more dal-rice?”
“I’m done,” he loosened his arms from around her but did not completely let go.
“If you are full, then no more bread either. Breakfast tomorrow,” she pushed out of his arms and moved. And he was left with his mouth hanging open, outwitted by his wife.
“Go shower and go to sleep.”
“When are you coming up?”
“Once this last lot is baked and stored, away from thieves.”
Atharva went to the sink and washed his hands — “But why are you so obsessively baking today? And so late in the night?”
No response. He flung the excess water away and turned — “Iram?”
“I am still unable to write.”
“Myani zuv…”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I start feeling down when I open my laptop but it’s like if I start, a lot of things will come out and I am not ready to read it back. And I will have to read it back to edit it.”
“Where are you stuck?”
“Huh?”
“In your writing process.”
“My blank document.”
“But you had to start editing your second book, isn’t it?”
