Page 7 of Red Flags and Rishtas
I took a big swig, feeling the liquid burn my insides all the way down to my stomach. ‘It’s too late to apologiiiise,’ I half-sang, using the bottle as my mic.
She giggled again, saying, ‘Oh, I love it when you get tipsy.’
We took turns drinking straight from the bottle, talking about what everyone was wearing, who they’d shown up with and what they were doing in life.
‘Did you know Srishti is engaged?’ V asked, taking two big sips in a row.
‘Is she? To whom?’ I asked, trying to remember if I’d seen a ring on her finger. I’m sure she would’ve waved it in my face if she had it on.
‘That investment banker dude,’ she said, absently running her fingers over the expensive linen on the bed.
‘What? Didn’t they meet like three months ago?’ I asked, taking the bottle from her.
‘Yeaaah. Time is a construct, apparently,’ she said, snatching the tequila mid-sip from me.
‘Hey! I was drink—’
‘It’s just that … why is it that Srishti’s five-second boyfriend can propose to her but …’ she said, her voice fading away as she buried her mouth in the bottle.
Uh-oh.V was now entering what we Delhiites liked to call the ‘Bad Trip’ or ‘BT zone’. It was imperative I saved her, or she’d spend the rest of her night sulking.
‘Hey,’ I said as I scooted closer to her, ‘he’s gonna propose.’
‘You think?’
She turned to face me, her big brown eyes wide and unblinking.
‘Of course,’ I reassured her. ‘He’d be crazy not to.’
She let me pull her back from the edge, and we resumed drinking over happier topics. And when the alcohol started hitting our sweet spots, we got up from the king-sized bed and proceeded to traverse the hallway back to the living room, into the world of the wine drinkers and foot tappers. The thing was, she fit into both these rooms – I didn’t.
The party buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses and the lively chatter of people prancing around in their glamorous designer outfits. As I made my way back into the room, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider. The people here spoke a different language, a subtle code of references and connectionsthat felt distant and exclusive. So I parked myself in a corner and decided to focus on the tequila.
At some point, Karan found his way back to me and asked if I wanted to head to his place. We said our goodbyes, stumbled out of the house, got into a cab, made out for however long it took to get to his place and then somehow made it to his apartment.
He didn’t bother switching on the lights when we entered and led me directly into his room. Karan didn’t give me any time to peep at the little mementos or the framed photos on his wall. And the first thought I had when his lips met mine was that I had to pee. All that tequila was on its way out.
I kissed him back for a few seconds, crossing my legs to buy my bladder some time. When I couldn’t hold it in any longer, I gently pushed him away.
‘Where’s the loo?’ I asked.
He pointed to a door outside his room and said, ‘Don’t be loud. My brother’s asleep in the other room.’
The washroom was well equipped, which was always a good sign. I had a theory – boys who didn’t keep toilet paper in their loos couldn’t make girls orgasm. If they couldn’t understand our safety and hygiene, how would they comprehend our pleasure?
I congratulated myself on my choice for the second time that night as I proceeded to do my business. I took some of the toilet paper and used it to wipe my underarms. I wasn’t carrying any make-up in my bag except for my lip balm, which I carefully reapplied. And after taking a good, long look at myself in the full-sized mirror, I flushed the toilet and made my way back to the hottie in the next room …who was fast asleep on his bed.
I poked his shoulder lightly, and he grunted unattractively, turning onto his side. He had taken his shirt off, and his abs mocked me from a distance.
Got any more toilet theories, huh, Annie?They seemed to say.
Ugh.
Because there wasn’t a couch or a chair in the room, I sat down on the other end of the bed and took out my phone. I had officially entered the BT zone. This night had been an absolute waste of my time, and I was ready for it to be over.
If this was a romcom, I would sneak out of Karan’s house, assuming I’d never see him again, only to bump into him a few days later at the supermarket, where he would reveal how hurt he had been by my flippant behaviour. I would then take him out for dinner to make it up to him, and we’d pick up right where we had left off.
But this wasn’t a romcom, and I passed out on his bed, waiting for my cab driver to arrive.
