Red lipstick of the fiercest shade.
Winged eyeliner that was perfect to the ‘T’.
She brushed through her waist length wavy hair, lightly teasing her earrings as her bangles fell against each other, creating soft music with their delicate selves around her delicate wrist.
She walked to her cupboard, as the silver anklets around her ankles sang with every step she took. Her eyes searched for his favourite colour. They finally lit up as they fell on the pink saree. Draping the synthetic cloth with works of sequins around herself, she looked into the antique mirror. She look like the goddess of beauty had been captured within the wooden frames of the mirror, spreading her aura all over the dimly lit room that smelt of lavenders.
But then something was wrong.
She creased her perfectly shaped eyebrows; something was missing.
And then it struck her.
Very lightly, she smoothed the creases on her forehead as she placed the white stone bindi in the precise position.
And there he was, leaning against the door’s frame, drinking her in with his eyes.
Quenching his thirst but yet not enough.
Kicking the door shut with his foot, he walked towards her, removing his perfect fit designer coat slowly. Grinning like a teenager, his pace increased as he saw the shades of amusement in her hazel eyes.
Fallen accessories singing.
Carpets of pink and formals.
More crimson smudges.
Lying on the king size bed, limbs tangled under the satin covers, he gazed at her as he raised his head and rested his cheek on his palm.
“I love you,” he whispered.
She smiled a smile that left ripples of grief across her pretty face.
“That’s what you tell your wife, waiting at home too,” replied the prostitute