Our love was charmingly bradycardic; the rhythm steady, the beats slow. I was surprised to learn he had never kissed anyone, let alone had sex. The first time I tried to hold his hand, he recoiled as if my hand was a viper, then embarrassed himself further by claiming that hand-holding was for teenagers. But I wore him down. By six months he was leaning into me as we walked down the cobblestones, planting hairbrush-like kisses on my cheek when he thought no-one was looking. I wasn’t afraid to tell him he was sexy; the strands of grey in his moustache were a turn-on and I didn’t care about how round his belly got. The only flaw was how clandestine he insisted on being.
We used to go to work separately to avoid suspicion - everyone knew the gynaecologists were awful gossips. In clinical meetings we exchanged sordid glances at the back of the room where no-one could see. But the luxury of our stage in life was that we wanted for nothing: candlelight dinners where puffs of lavender-scented candles wafted in the rooftop breeze; a memorable getaway to the States, when we perched on a float at Pride and waved giant rainbow flags - all whilst wearing sunglasses to remain incognito, of course. We couldn’t have Mr Patel accidentally recognising his cardiologist on BBC News.
One day, he sat me down and said his parents were coming to visit. I was overjoyed - maybe this was our chance, an opportunity to share our love with the world. The closet door beckoned. Who better to start with than his parents?
“I can’t tell them,” he said. He shook his head. “I can’t. In my culture, this is shameful.”
“Shameful?” I repeated.
He just looked at me in defeat.
“You’re a grown man,” I said. “You’re allowed to do this.”
“I was hoping you would understand,” he replied. “If we just don’t see each other while they’re here…” He took my hand. “I’ll make it up to you once they leave.”
the story is from mr.Shuvayon Mukherje
on blog.reedsy.com
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