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Outin the warm night air,Krishplunged his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath, raising his shoulders towards his ears.Alittle of the tension he’d been holding all week dribbled away as he released his shoulders back down and cracked his neck left and right, a habit he’d picked up fromConnor.
Actually,Krishcould use the walk.
Ithad been a busy week.He’dfilled up every second of his time, leaving no spare moments for second-guessing himself.SinceseeingFrancescalastFriday, he’d gone out for a run every evening before bed, sometimes late at night.Hefound that physical exercise helped him have deep, dreamless sleeps—exactly what he needed right now.
Heemptied his mind of thought and concentrated on his breathing, taking in the world around him.Henoticed the cat in someone’s window.Thenoise of a child crying.Musicand conversation from the pub.Asiren.Thelingering herbal smell of a joint.
Insidethe supermarket, he perused the aisles until he found the antacids.Grabbinga box, he turned to go back to the register, but a bright display snagged his eye.
Itwas the feminine hygiene section.Heblinked at the rows of tampons, and his thoughts jumped automatically toFrancesca.Hewondered if herPMSwas better now.Livingwith that must be horrible, like being a stranger in your own body.Whenhe considered all the things that women had to go through—periods, childbirth, menopause—it made him grateful to be a man.
WhatwasFrancescadoing right now?Probablyout with friends.Orperhaps she’d be working late.Sheworked so hard.Itmade him worry about her, even though, if there was any woman who could take care of herself, it wasFrancesca.
Anothermemory ofPariscame to him: as they were strolling along the pavement, aFrenchmanhad squeezedFrancesca’sbottom whileKrishwas ahead of her.Sheturned and punched the sleaze bag in the nuts.Ashe limped off, an elderlyFrenchlady who had seen the whole thing and was wheezing with laughter asked them to join her at her café table and share a bottle of wine.
They’dended up staying there for hours, chatting with her as she chain smoked cigarette after cigarette.Ina deep, throaty voice, she’d said in heavily accentedEnglish: ‘Remember, if you see somebody walking and smoking inParis, they aren’t trueParisiennes.Wealways stand still or sit to enjoy our cigarettes.Likecivilised people.’
Afterwards,KrishandFrancescahad wandered aroundMontmartredoing a tally of walking versus sitting smokers.Abusker sang a song fromMoulinRouge!,Francesca’sfavourite movie, in front of theSacreCoeur, and they danced together like they were the only two people in the world.
Helaughed.Ithad been one of those impromptu evenings that only ever happened when travelling.
Someonecoughed.Krishrefocused on the present.Awoman was standing nearby, waiting for him to stop gurning at tampons and get out of her way.
Hetook a step back. ‘Um, sorry…’
Withnothing else to say, he turned on one foot and raced to the register to pay for his antacids.Outside, he leaned back against a brick wall and tapped his head against the scratchy stone, wishing that it could knock these recurring thoughts ofFrancescaout of his brain.
Butit was no use.Everytime he tried to ignore her, her presence grew stronger and brighter.Hisfeelings refused to behave.
Whatdid he love about her, anyway?Shecould be stroppy and argumentative, bad-tempered, sarcastic and an all-around pain in the arse…but she also cracked him up.Theirsenses of humour were perfectly in sync.Funnyobservations that he would have to explain toJess,Francescagot straight away.Andhe liked how she used to go out of her way to make him laugh.Afew weeks after they started going out, he caught flu overHalloween, so she made him vegetable soup and cooked a hand out of puff pastry to stick in the broth, like a body trying to escape.Sincethen, he’d secretly believed soup without puff pastry hands was inferior soup.Ontop of that, she had so much passion.Talented, too.Whenshe smiled, it lit up his heart.Andsomething about her brought out his protective side.Hewanted to keep her safe.Makeher feel loved and wanted.
AndJess…well, she was easygoing, loyal,and enthusiastic.Sexy, kind and generous.Theyhad fun together.Shecared for him.
ButFrancesca…
Theheart wants what the heart wants.
Hesmashed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbed.Howcould he propose to one woman when his thoughts were filled with another?
Itdawned onKrishthat he stood at a crossroads.Lifewas littered with them—the big ones that would fundamentally change his course.Choosingwhich university to attend.Choosingto leave the law firm and pursue photography.Choosingto separate fromConnorand strike out on his own.
Ifhe had chosen any other path, his life would look completely different right now.Hehad never been cowed by choosing the harder path in the past, but this one felt different.Thistime, somebody he loved could get really hurt.Jesswas an amazingperson.Shedidn’t deserve to have her heart broken.
Butshe also didn’t deserve to have a partner who wasn’t 100% focused on her.
Hethought about his father and the choices he’d made that resulted inAnkitaandKrish: leaving his family inIndiato study in theUK.Choosingto remain after he graduated.Marryinga white woman despite the disapproval of his parents and society at the time.
Howdid his father know what to do?Theurge to talk to his dad hitKrishstrongly, right in his chest, causing it to tighten.WhatwouldDadsay?Hewas a man obsessed by science and logic.Aman who loved a good plan and seeing it through to fruition.Butin this situation, would he counsel his son to follow his heart like he had?Orwould he tellKrishto follow his plan?Tostay the course?
Hecould follow through with his proposal toJess, and they’d probably have an uncomplicated life together.He’dconvinced himself that a ‘nice’ and ‘easy’ marriage was what he wanted above all else, like his parents.Butwas that really his dream?He’dalways wonder—and always regret—that he hadn’t figured out this thing between him andFrancesca.Hestill didn’t believe she had a boyfriend.Whywas she lying?Whateverhappened, he was determined to uncover the answer.
Pressurebuilt in the skin of his hands, blood pooling in his fingers, making them tingle uncomfortably.Hemade fists, squeezing and releasing a few times to encourage circulation.Heslipped his left hand into his pocket, stroking a phantom velvet box containing an antique ring.
Hehad to make a choice.JessorFrancesca.Whatshould he do?
23
Francescasippedher coffee and watched the front door of the office building from the safety of the cafe across the road.
