What I Don't Know Can't Hurt Me

This week, I've dedicated the blog to  I'm Hearing Voices , which  has turned out to be an awesome blogfest hosted by Cassie Mae at Reading, Writing, and Lovin' it! and Angie at Live to Write...Edit when Necessary. 

This blogfest was a series of writing exercises we had to post on the 6th, 8th and 10th of February, and since I love stretching those writing muscles, I decided to join in!

After my post on Monday and Wednesdayy, here's what the hosts want us to do today, the 10th of February: 

Emotion Flash Fiction: Emotion is the engine of a story. Pick an emotion and in a flash fiction piece of 250 words MAKE us feel it! We want to connect with your character. This will be a challenge in 250 words.
 

Here's my attempt, and the character whose voice we hear is Anjali, the one who was mentioned by Churi and Vrishchik in my last post on dialogue . Here she is wondering about Vrishchik.

What I don't know can't hurt me-- I've gone that route before. Do I want to try it again?

 Yes, his eyes are the shade of burnt caramel, that darken when I’m around. He is gorgeous, shy, ten years younger, everything I want. 

When he rubs lotion on my legs, the frissons on my skin make me want to take things further. 

Character storyboard Anjali Menon

This Delhi winter makes your skin dry, he says. Take care of your skin, it is what makes you beautiful. Beauty is not skin deep, I say, kissing his full lower lip. You never know, he says, and his lop-sided grin makes me want to drag him to the bedroom. 

I don't. We've only just met, and if he is pacing it, so should I. Boys love the chase, only I wish he’d hurry up. And marrying a chef is exactly the sort of thing I would advice me, if I were my own therapist. I need nurturing. This is what they warn us against in my profession-- psychiatrists analyse everyone, themselves, most of all. So stop it already, Ms Anjali Menon. 

But why do I sometimes feel his smile switches on a milli-second too late, that his kiss seems like he taught it to himself, that his face is sometimes a mask that moves? And when I catch him staring at me, I step back as if blown back by an autumn gust of wind? 

Sometimes the quietness of his gaze frightens me. There, I said it.