Fiction from Sudha Balagopal

Photo: Justine Camacho

We Have Little Time Left

I should have listened to the doctors who said I can converse with you, even if you aren’t able to respond. I should have caressed your hands, your papery skin. I should have kissed your palms instead of withdrawing and submerging into worry after your stroke.

Never mind, I’m here now, your shriveled hands in mine, studying your yellowed nails, the scratches and dents on your wedding ring.

Remember all the frenzied back and forth over a gold band? I was nineteen to your twenty-three, didn’t comprehend love is more than passionate letters and luscious chocolates, more than one special day each year. How upset I got because you wouldn’t declare your feelings on Valentine’s Day, how I sulked when you said I shouldn’t believe commercials. What’s this? Knuckle hair around the ring? Let me fetch my manicure set. These tiny scissors are what I use to control my embarrassing chin hair. I’m sure you observed the three miniscule strands sprouting in my chin’s cleft, but you, my wonderful, gallant man, didn’t comment.

Would you mind if I took care of the patchy fuzz on your cheeks? You used to be particular about your beard and hair. Our thirties and forties are blurry—time plays fugitive with age—but I haven’t forgotten your luxuriant hair, your monthly appointments with the barber. I’m sure you recall I threw fits―you had time for the barber, but not for me. I yearned for a connection, a stolen weekend, even as we tackled our mountain of responsibilities―and my God, we struggled, juggling work, home, children, cantankerous, aging parents. Real life obfuscated love.

Can you feel my hand on your head? You’re bald now, your thick shock a memory. You wouldn’t let me touch your monogrammed comb-and-brush set. Here’s a confession. I use them often to feel close to you. Since I’m confessing, I might as well bring up the school principal. Thing is, I was in a vulnerable place. No, there are no excuses. I’m ashamed I drank up his compliments, I’m sorry I accepted his lunch invitations. You knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you confront me?

Do you like my hands cupping your cheeks? You did this every time you kissed me, made me feel precious. Oh dear, your ears are dirty. Does it annoy you that I’m folding your ear to wipe it clean? You didn’t allow anyone to touch your lobes because your primary school teacher pinched them as punishment. Just two more seconds. There, they’re beautiful.

Love’s not always beautiful, right? We’ve argued, we’ve shouted. If you asked me now, I couldn’t tell you what some of our disagreements were about. Sometimes it became impossible to excavate affection. Like when you canceled a vacation to handle a work crisis, leaving me drenched in disappointment. And yet, love can also be the stench of morning breath, despite which I kissed you, because I wanted to make up after a row. Or the odor of your post-workout sweat, which I ignored, because it spoke of you wanting to stay healthy. For me.

Do you know everything here smells of medications, illness and old age? I don’t care. Because you’re here and I’m here with you. Because we have little time left. So I sit, my wrinkled fingers holding yours, chattering about matters big and small, about love and life, about you and me. And there you are, my darling, making my old heart dance as you lift your thumb, rub it against the back of my hand.
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Sudha Balagopal‘s writing appears in Smokelong, swamp pink and Vast Chasm, among other journals. Most recently, her novella in flash, Nose Ornaments, was published by Ad Hoc Fiction, UK. She has had stories included in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and the Wigleaf Top 50.