I do remember about the fight between me and my partner that happened sometime back but don’t remember the reason behind it. It is always he said and me said tussle. The mundane war of words, but somehow these arguments give both of us (particularly me) such a kick that I forget my other failures and disappointments of life. I relish smashing his ego with the canine edges of my carefully crafted counterarguments. The high I get is unmatchable, beyond the happiest glass of malt scotch.

It’s a pattern I notice. Inevitably we fight on some silly issue that is born in that very moment and I ask him to leave my home and my life immediately. And inevitably after some pause, the partner comes to me and says sorry. And inevitably I go into his arms the next second. Afterwards, I tell him contritely:

“See, I know that you are the one who takes initiative in sorting this fight out but can’t you see, I also give in so easily. To tell you a secret, I wait for you to come and ask. If I had been annoyed, I would not have relented so quickly.’

This pattern is sealed with a breathless kiss, we both devouring and falling on each other in utter confusion and making love. As it happened that day.

I lolled on the bed doing some work on my laptop and we got into an argument. And I become impatient to conquer when our fights happen, so I hurled the ultimate scud missile, the brahmastra, ‘Leave Me’. This lethal weapon works like splintering shards of firework. He goes mum. There’s nothing more left for him to say after the doomsday. It’s the final exit. I’m content donning the tiara of a victor, but inside my heart is pumping and surging warm blood in my veins. I’m sombre.

‘Will he leave?’

The partner goes to the other room and I’m left alone. I’m now panicking, desperate to seek his attention, to tell him not to go. But my resolute stops me from moving forward. I helplessly wait for him, not knowing if he will, come back.

And the happiness…

He comes back to my room and sits besides me. And then cupping my face in both his palms, he says: ‘Darling, I can’t live without you.’

Oh! This moment, I can’t hold back myself anymore now. I take a plunge in his arms. The garland of his arms seems like pious Ganges to me. It’s a complete surrender that follows from the conquest of his ego. The gender barriers are broken and what is left are two hungry souls and bodies, who are dead scared from the prospect of their union becoming ruins. The dilapidated palace of love is more joyous than a brick and mortar enclosure of steadier commitment. The one that is wavering, uncertain, faltering is the one that brings desire…

He quickly gets up and closes the door. At our home, we don’t hesitate from my mother, closing the door in the daylight even when she is awake. This added freedom of her notice that closing the door happens because her daughter is spending some intimate time with her lover acts as a love stimulant, soaring my hunger for sex.

What ensues after the closing of doors can resemble a tornado. I sink my nails into the flesh of his spine. My mouth is wide open and is hurting because his incisor teeth press against my lips. But this hurt is insatiable, I let him do, biting my lip into bits. There is a mild scrape on my lip and a drop of blood comes out from it. I get to lick my own blood with my tongue and it feels amazing. The undressing and unbuttoning is done so swiftly like there’s no tomorrow, like the world is coming to an end and all that remains is this moment, us.

In the haste, Like a 6 year old, I struggle to open the buttons of his shirt. Unbuttoning is a fine skill, like tailoring, like embroidering. The distinct position of the hole on the seam of the shirt. I need to focus my eye on the craft to unbutton but my eyes are simmering with lust. I don’t have that much time dear. Can I rip your shirt?

Fights are such…Fear is a potent aphrodisiac.