This is Risha from you can read me anything, and Robert’s very kindly allowed me to defile his fab blog with my blathering.
Let me preface this by sharing a little secret: I don’t write fiction. Specifically, I don’t write short stories with characters and back stories and reasoning behind actions and things like that. I do vignettes, I do sketches, I do short first-person narratives. I don’t write fiction. Mostly because I’m terrible at it, terrible enough that it’s cringe-worthy. In fact, I haven’t worked on a short story since I finished my Bachelor’s degree: as I don’t have to anymore. However, I promised someone a few months ago that I’d give it a shot and try my hand at it. Here’s a somewhat first draft excerpt from it. Feel free to rip apart.
They were friends, often with benefits. They fit: their bodies, their lifestyles, their choices. They fit; even in the way she bent to spit toothpaste and he tilted his head to gargle: synchronised, compatible, easy. They shared a home, a parrot, a kitchen and sometimes; parts of each other. She’d find his t-shirt under her bed; and she’d return it in the most creative of ways. Often, by getting him to rip it off.
She never kept any when he left. Nobody needs rags.
They e-mailed in bursts. A conversation that spanned a few months of no-replies and forgot all about the time zones. Discussions that splintered and meandered off into undecipherable friend-code.
“Blonde. Possible botox. Yes.”
“Have my babies, Lauren Graham? p.s.: what the fuck is a Gleek?”
“Yoda says hello.”
There were no, “I miss you” e-mails or long paragraphs on how there was no one’s chest to warm one’s feet on, or hair to unthinkingly play with as you read the paper. No one to stretch against as the sun peered in through that one broken blind. No, there was none of that.
These weren’t things they thought, or felt and didn’t say. This just didn’t exist to either of them.
There was never any talk of meeting up or planning a trip. Neither of them wondered when they’d see each other again or if they ever would. Inhabiting the kind of world that they did, they already knew the answer.
They stumbled into each other across oceans and continents. Their transient lives somehow finding a way to collide. In coincidentally being posted to the same country twice in six years; in finding no wedding bands or lovesick expressions. In how their hugs hello were always helter-skelter runs with her legs wrapped around his torso, him spinning slowly; hands gripping her upper arms flung around his neck; mouths meshing seamlessly: in lifts, showers, bars; on floors and over the bathroom sink.
And then, they veered off again; never suspecting their worlds might align again someday; this airport scene repeating itself over and over.
If you stuck with it, thanks for reading! I figured I needed to just go ahead and put this up somewhere for it to be ripped apart, to just… start telling the story. Once you start telling a story, you have to finish it… right?
I’ll quit rambling now.
(Psssst! This is Rob here. Reminding you that Risha’s fantastic blog can be found at You can read me anything. Go check it out and show some love, okay? She is the good stuff.)