On days of sudden surges she’s Scarlet o’ hara or Rebeca .
Mostly she can be any of Kana Mitra, Shiuli Das or Moon-Moon.
On those days she writes poetry like Keats.
Only that she likes Byron or Neruda more, she confirms.
And all her poems make her cry of which only I have been privy to
Like a spectator though, not a participant.
-“These poems are what resonate in my mind on most days in work”.
-“Not that there is anything else to think of” I chide
-“Not much time to think too” she laughs.
I don’t know her exact name. I don’t know her most.
I doubt it has something to do with P as that tattoo shall suggest you too.
I know though that her birthday is on Sixteenth June and her mother died that day some years later.
She has no history as she jokes, only a succession of presents.
But she loves history.
She once recited ‘Cleopatra’s Date Tonight’ one of her writes, a comedy this time on one of her playful days.
She loves Italian food and Roshogolla.
She is a closet communist. Fantasizes Che Guvera
She reads quality literature and has hard bound covers of many.
Her favorite book is little woman.
She has been Bonolata Sen for me on one of such days.
She loves me for my love of good literature and women, only platonically though she maintains.
She has those eyes like unexpected evening rains and can speak fluent Bengali if she wishes too.
With a voice like an early winter morning or raspberry.
She has a mole in the right side.
Her smile is all what I wanted to be ten years ago but could not.
She is all my failures conglomerated.
She offers the best blow-job in town. She is client satisfaction guaranteed.
And according to a very learned customer, a poetry to enter too.