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I knew that they were leaving to Hyderabad for a wedding and the house was under my custody. So I was ready to seduce her to sleep with me. So the day of my dreams arrived. She was in a blue top and jeans. I was so happy to meet her. We were suppose to go by 1:30 train which left us with 5 hours of quality time with us. I acted as if I am getting a call in my cell phone. Which was a fake, I made sure that she feels that I have left some important documents back at home and I need to get them before leaving to Kerala.So she had to come with me to my house because she dint want miss spending time with me. She was not ready at first, but I said no cousins are at home so you do not need to worry we will go there get the documents and come back. She agreed reluctantly. After half an hour of bus ride we reached home. I opened the door and ask her to come in quickly before my neighbors started questioning. As I went in I started showing her all around the house and she was impressed.I told. We’ve been writing for over two years now, do you realize?”“I do. Nobody writes to me more regularly than you do. I was really surprised because I don’t think we even said ten words to each other when I was here in April of ‘80.”“No, but you noticed me, right?”I smiled, “Of course. A cute girl who hung around the whole time was hard to miss!”She laughed, “Sure, but you were sixteen and I was only twelve. I figured you wouldn’t want to talk to me. Most guys your age wouldn’t.”“I was talking to everyone that day. I certainly would have talked to you if you wanted. You did take the chance to write to me and found out that I was happy to have a pen-pal. I think I know more about you than almost anyone in Sweden, except perhaps my friend Karin in Stockholm.”“You’re going to see her next week, right? And your letter seemed to indicate that you thought she was just a friend at this point because of your girl back home?”“Yes, that’s true. Though some things have changed back home that I had.
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. hers was the charm of an old bordello whore. Clearly she'd been cut, but not by a surgeon. There was a jagged mark beneath her collarbone. There was a crescent shaped scar that I somehow knew was from a broken bottle. Bar room brawl or sadistic lover, the scar had a story all it's own, I was sure. I wasn't sure if it was better than the story that accompanied the bruises on her wrists. It looked as if she was just recovering from a nasty rope burn. There was another variety of burn on her shoulder-blade. As she'd slid out of her coat, baring her shoulders earlier, I'd noticed what looked like a brand etched into her with a coat hanger and white heat. With so many scars and stories, I knew she wasn't a delicate flower. She'd earned every scar and wore them proudly. Her body was a road map of pain, and her fingers had traced every angry red line that was raised across her ebony flesh. I can't say I bothered to ask her name. In the weeks that followed, it became my obsession, that name.

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