Saurav karki
It was a holiday and a windy afternoon just before spring. The scene was so endearing that the season was sarcastically termed “the seasons of getting eloped” back then and up to this point.
The village was essentially a suburb, and everyone’s heart dared to become agitated since the breeze was so thrilling lonely at that moment. It was once said that no one could resist the protagonist’s repetitive impulses. And women? Trapped in their fantasies, sickened by the hormones and rapid changes in mood.
The season was so devious that it made everyone, married or single, choose their ideal mates and elope from their family.
A slender youngster, approaching adolescence, was having fun in the courtyard and on the street. He was so happy and excited about his new bicycle that he was trying to show off and practicing every trick he could think of. Without a doubt, children outnumbered adults and teenagers.
When the youngster passed by the courtyard, two black eyes were peering through the windows. The identical eyes watched him pass through the courtyard wall’s divider as he turned to face back. The teenager showed no concern or observation. Playing, he was in such bliss.
It was an internally scheduled, typical routine.
The young man in his teens attempted to use his new ability that day. On the moving bicycle’s seat, he attempted to stand up. It was rather common and informal for him to stand straight on the wheel’s mud guard with his feet off of the rolling pedal and his hands off of the handle. He had such talent and ability.
That day, the latest stunt was a failure.
The young man lost his balance and wrecked his bicycle. Abruptly, he toppled the pedaling bicycle. The tissues covering the knees squashed on top of it. Tears filled the teenager’s eyes. He didn’t break his bone, luckily.
It exhibited those stunning eyes held by a lunar face. She unlocked the door and pushed her body over the slumped youth and his bike.
“Are you in pain?”
The youngster was softly moved by the lovely, compassionate voice.
The boy, who was experiencing the most excruciating pain of his life, remained silent.
He was scooped up and taken to the house behind the courtyard by the kind lady.
She led him upstairs to the tiny, dark room. She attempted to bandage his knees after cleaning his wound with iodized cotton. However, she had an evil demand on him before that.
“Will you kindly remove your pants down?”
The lovely woman said.
The youngster wanted to ask why, in order to verbally convey his dismay.
He simply did not blink.
The woman tugged at his trousers. The brown underpants showed.
For a few of minutes, she let the pants hang over his lower legs. She continued to dress the wound, ignoring the brown underwear. His knees were finally wrapped.
Untouched, one knee turned to face the wrapped knees. The other knee, untouched and bleeding, was pitied by the wrapped one.
It felt like such a dramatic scene.
The unscrupulous woman took his pant out of those feet rather than allowing him to draw it over after bandaging.
She rubbed her hand over that underwear.
“Are you feeling good?”
She whispered.
The boy attempted to leap over the bed, too scared to respond.
She had clung to him tightly.
She took off his undies.
The boy was not thrilled. He remained shook.
The woman sensed the fear.
She freed him and loosened her grasp. The boy attempted to flee.
“Put on your clothes!”
“First the panty, and then the pants!”
She instructed.
The child dressed himself swiftly.
“Move away,” she commanded.
The boy grasped the door’s handle. It didn’t open.
“Roll it to the left,” she gave another command.
The young man was so anxious at the time that the task was among his hardest ones to complete.
“Hold on,” she answered.
She got to her feet and walked over to the boy and the stuck door.
“Come here next time if you feel okay.”
She shoved the tiny child out of the way of the door and slammed it.
The woman was so convinced of herself that she never tried to threaten the youngster.
The rationale for not seeing him as a threat was so enigmatic.
Days, months, and years went by, but the boy never felt comfortable visiting the house or going through the little door into those tiny, dimly lit rooms.
He had noticed the same woman behind the windows a few times. He looked away; his face terrified. That individual’s face was so icy and soulless. Those were the expressions devoid of color on faces.
The mysterious woman vanished in less than a year.
The youth eventually forgot his nightmare.
***
One day, a figure with a metallic face leaped towards me and laughed. Painted with a bright white face like an aluminum paint. That face had no wrinkles that may have left me in complete amazement.
What a lifeless face!
Soon, the face became familiar.
Are you able to identify?
He must have assumed that I was so deep in thoughts.
He laughed in a robotic way. As if everyone would make fun of me.
The cover was similar to the cover I had seen many years ago. Matches my guess.
“Why did that cover, that expression seemed artificial to me?”
I thought.
I was insisted upon having a couple of teas with this Metallic Face.
All I could do was accept. There was not another option.
I have rekindled my friendship with him since then. He has been repeating his love affair/sexual encounters over and again for years.
“What scores do you have?”
I asked him a lot back then.
I couldn’t recall the way he used to estimate so differently every time.
The thing that interests me the most is how confidently he said it. This happened to be the first time in my life that I had seen a man so innocent and proud.
After a few swigs of wine, this metallic face would always bring up the subject of sexual relationships and sexuality in front of us. One of his favorite themes has always been sex. He constantly brings us up to date on the subject when we are having a casual conversation.
We used to laugh a lot and be amazed.
“Why do you think he has a metallic face?”
My friends used to ask me very seldom.
“Do you think he’s showing any emotion?”
“The oddest outside of sexual orientation and sex?”
I justified.
I see him as a pure metallic.
But that doesn’t mean I hated him.
After-all, I adore him.
By the way, he is incredibly innocent and proud.
I compensate my accusations.
This metallic friend of mine would always proudly tell an intriguing anecdote when he was drunk.
You know, I used to be so close to a princess. She was a very lovely young woman who wasn’t much older than me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier woman in my life. She is, in my opinion, “The Lady with a Standard.”
This individual had undoubtedly attended a Thai university while studying overseas. Thailand is sometimes referred to as the “Heaven of sex” or the “country of lust.”
At first, the metallic face was very unreliable.
She may be related to the royal family in some way. If that’s the case, you have our whole trust.
A friend of mine protested.
The metallic face’s explanation of the storyline was so flat and uninteresting. However, we didn’t enjoy that; he did.
There was no affection, no feeling.
I would like to term that a pure and incomplete sexual encounter.
How do you feel?
I inquired to my next friend.
Simply from a pretty girl perspective, I would refer to it as sexual interference.
In response, my friend laughed.
Once or twice, a lovely pretty For-tuner lady drove away with the metallic face in her imported car. They relished their elegant evening in a five-star hotel. For me, it was a realization of my dream.
Every time a scenario broke, he reveled in his storyline and described it.
He didn’t respond.
He believes he is on the superior side of things because he has always had one-sided sex.
I wrap up.
The metallic face would often catch up with sweet girls, married or single, professional and unprofessional, attractive and average. Day or night, he would have an amazing and laid-back outing. The women are so comfortable in his presence.
When I and my buddies heard about his accomplishment and score, we used to look unhappy.
***
One day, the same metallic face developed feelings for a sweet girl who was much younger than him.
He proudly once declared his connections.
The girl was so pretty. It appeared like he had lost his logic over her because she was so adored and cherished.
This time, I’ve fallen in love. I need to settle soon.
The man answered.
“Again?”
I jeered at him.
He remained silent.
A couple months had passed since our group last saw him. It was as though he had vanished.
“Where are you at?”
We spoke with him on the phone once.
And we received his succinct, direct response.
His intention was to wed and move overseas with his spouse.
One of my friends told.
Whatever the motive behind his actions. But six months later, one day, the metallic face was back.
His face showed little signs of suffering and sadness.
‘What happened?’
We inquired.
“A storytelling cannot begin without the cocktail. No emotions emerge from the core of an individual and the deepest recesses of one’s thoughts without a few swigs of booze. Our standards were developed over many years of specialization. So did our way of reasoning.”
‘Cheers! Alcohol is a great initiator.’
Following a close connection spanning six months, the girl ultimately turned down his proposal of marriage.
“Why?”
“Perhaps he’s too old!”
“Perhaps they are no longer a good fit!”
Alternatively, perhaps they are unworthy of one another!
We only listed what he said, what we heard, or what we returned following our lengthy, in-depth panel deliberations.
“Boy, you’re too old to please a young girl anymore.”
A friend of ours made fun of him.
There was no frustration on the metallic face.
“So, what will you do at this point?”
A few minutes before we departed the cocktail party, I asked him.
“What else is to it?” Move on!
The metallic face simply grinned, his chin up and eyes flashing.
I stared at him.
The same soulless white face, painted with an aluminum shade, caught my attention.
