A Rose and her Thorn

6 Years Ago

There was a man and a woman in an art studio. The man sat at the center with a canvas and a brush, capturing the woman in the front, perched on a stool, still as a river stone. There was an air of tranquility to her smile, which held all the radiance of a midnight crown. The artist’s eyes carefully studied the graceful presence before him, and with each stroke of the brush, he captured the parts that made her whole – the depth of her eyes, the shape of her lips, and the curve of her jawline. Every detail of her flesh was captured with perfection and care, showing the respect he held for his muse. However, something bothered him, and the stillness prevailed. The sound of brushstrokes, which had held the silence in prison, now let it go to envelop the room. 

The woman broke her stillness and observed him for a moment, then asked, “What’s bothering you?”

“I do not know. I reckon this is just one of those days when you simply feel terrible. Sorry, Saanvi, you dedicated your time to me, and I am being ungrateful,” he sighed.

“It is fine. I like the things you paint, though it’s painful to change into those old costumes and sit still as a stone. The paintings you provide are worth the boredom. And I think I know the reason for your frustrations.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You are a virgin who needs to get laid.” That got a chuckle out of him.

“Whatever troubles me isn’t related to my bodily needs. I very much assure you.”

“A little sensual fun will free the burden. It will provide you some respite, and being confined to the studio all day long isn’t living.”

“Perhaps you are right, but I am waiting for the right person.”

“Life is too short for you to deny yourself the pleasures it offers. The people you encounter are diverse, and it’s important to experience different perspectives and connections. Being confined to one person for your entire life is simply not exciting.”

“My dearest friend, I want something more than just fleeting pleasures.”

“Fawad, later in life, you will regret the lack of experience both in love and lovemaking. Take my advice and savor the beauty and pleasures that life offers. If you are afraid of sin, remember you are friends with a woman lover. Nothing is as scandalous as that. And besides, the vices that people on high horses say aren’t sinful. What harm is there in something done mutually? What is life without enjoyment? In my opinion, pleasure is the ultimate goal.”

“I don’t think such a life is fulfilling.”

“No, dear, pleasure is fulfilling. You just need to get a taste of it. Fawad, later in life, you will regret the lack of experience both in love and lovemaking. Take my advice and savor the beauty and pleasures that life offers. If you are afraid of sin, remember you are friends with a lesbian. Nothing is as scandalous as that. And besides, the vices that people on high horses bleat about aren’t sinful. What harm is there in something done mutually? What is life without enjoyment? In my opinion, pleasure is the ultimate goal.”

He let out a sigh in resignation, got up from his chair, took out a cigarette from a box on a table, and lit it.

“Not even going to offer me? What kind of friend are you?” He took another one and handed it to her, lighting it with a lighter.

“I prefer matches. This tastes all weird.”

“Really? I never really noticed any difference.”

He walked over to the window, and the pouring golden rays touched his hair, leaving dappled gold, cut from an intruding tree.

“Interesting,” he said. She walked over to the window and followed his gaze.

“Isn’t she pretty? No, I’m not interested in her in that way, before you jump to conclusions. I just see her there every day, either reading a book or writing in one, sitting on that bench. I wonder if she would be interested in being my muse. She isn’t quite like you, but she has a charm of her own.”

The girl in question was a young woman, somewhere between 18 to 20 years old, with delicate features framed on a canvas of caramel. Her eyes were honey that held a spark of sunset. Her wavy hair swayed as it deigned to be touched by the gentle breeze. She was wearing a daisy print dress with a denim jacket.

“What is her name?” Saanvi asked, not letting her gaze wander away.

“I do not know.” She stepped away from the window.

“Where are you going?”

“To ask her name.”

“Why do you want to know her name?”

“To call her by her name, obviously.”

She rushed out to the spot, but the girl was nowhere to be found.

“Do you know where she went?” Saanvi called out to Fawad, who was standing by the window.

“The guys at the theater will kill me if you ruin that dress. Get back here!”

“I don’t have time for this.” She cursed to herself and ran, much to the dismay of her friend. As she ran, the Regency-era gown billowed behind her, its layers of fabric becoming a hindrance, impeding her progress by tangling around her legs. She ran about, and people were looking. She searched about and cut to another pathway that led to the banks of the university. She stopped for a second, looking around. When she tried to move, she slipped. Someone had stepped on her gown, causing her to lose her balance. Her feet entangled in the fabric, she lost control and fell onto the gravel.

“I am so sorry,” a woman’s voice said. She helped Saanvi up, giving her a sympathetic smile.

It was her.

That woman at the bench.

“It’s my fault. I was staring at the phone. Are you hurt?”

“It is fine,” Saanvi said, taking her hand and getting up, dusting off her dress. She was shorter than her.

“I sprained my leg.”

“I think we need to go to a clinic,” she said, looking at a bruise on Saanvi’s wrist.

“A friend of mine can help me with that. Let’s go to the art department.”

They walked in silence, Ishani’s hand held Saanvi’s arm protectively. After a few moments, Saanvi broke the silence.

“What is your name?”

“Ishani.”

“Ishani,” she said, her voice laced with intensity.

“Yes?”

“Nothing, I wanted to call you by your name. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, beaming.

“What is your name?”

“Saanvi.”

“So, Ishani, what do you do other than making pretty women fall?”

Ishani chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, besides unintentionally causing accidents, I’m a theater major.”

“Ah, I see. Are you a first-year student?”

“Yes. And why are you wearing a costume and running around?”

“Well, I made a promise to drink moderately, and when I woke up, I found myself wearing this ridiculous costume. Ah, the wonders of Friday nights, am I right? This wardrobe malfunction going to be a permanent reminder of my hangover. I also recall wearing a glass slipper. I am searching for it to return it to its rightful owner.” Ishani smiled

“You are funny.”

“I try. Well in truth, I was acting as a muse for a good friend of mine. And I was looking for a man who owes me money and is not paying it back.”

“I am sorry you couldn’t catch that man.”

“Don’t worry. You can compensate with your time.”

“My time?”

“Yes, your time.”

“What will we do with my time?” she asked, amused.

“What would two women do together?”

“I never hung out with a woman chasing people in a Victorian-era dress. So enlighten me.”

“A girl like me would want to be mysterious.”

“And how much time may this mystery require?”

“Give me another day of your life, and I will make it worthwhile.” Ishani looked at Saanvi with a amused glint in her eyes, considering her invitation.

“Careful with those words. Some people will fall in love with you if you speak talk that,” Ishani cautioned, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

 Engaged in their conversation, Saanvi and Ishani eventually arrived at their destination.

“I need a pen,” Saanvi said. Ishani took a pen from her bag and extended it to Saanvi. Saanvi delicately took Ishani’s hand and held it in her grasp. With a subtle smile playing on her lips, she slowly traced her fingers along the length of the pen, prolonging the moment. Saanvi then jotted down her phone number on Ishani’s palm.

“It might be too late, but I had a pen and paper you could have used to write your number,” Ishani remarked, teasingly.

“Oh, that is very unfortunate,” she replied, feigning disappointment. 

"Call me."