All Strings Attached

Chapter Nine

She sighs, tossing her head back. "I can't get off all the pins," she complains, pulling out the oddly-bunched up parts of her saree.

"Do you want help?" I offer.

She looks up at me, with her cheeks puffed up in indignation. A moment later, her arm that blocks my entrance into the closet drops, and she moves back in silent acceptance of my assistance.

I step into the closet and notice a few suitcases lined up on one side, a lot of empty hangers and shelves with the odd clothing item.

"I thought you wanted to help," she says, bringing my attention back to the problem at hand.

Pride and arrogance that are only becoming of a woman like her. Am I even allowed to take offence to this behaviour?

It certainly ticks me off; she can be however proud or arrogant or snarky or whatever else, but what makes her think it's okay to speak to me this way?

She's in a tough spot, I remind myself. She's married to someone she never wanted to marry, she's sacrificing everything she wanted for a lifestyle she claims to hate with every fibre of her being. I shouldn't blame her.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, looking at her through the mirror.

Her kajal-lined eyes look back at me, meeting my gaze for the first time tonight, but she looks away quickly enough. "There's a safety pin on my shoulder that I can't get out," she says, lifting her blouse and pushing her thumb through the area to show me a large safety pin.

She lets go as soon as I touch the fabric, and I twist the blouse a little, to be able to see the safety pin. The dark green of the blouse looks divine against her skin, but I remain focused on the task at hand, and remove the safety pin, causing the pleats to fall over, but her pallu remains fixed on her shoulder.

I frown at the long, flowy fabric. Why won't it come undone?

"I think there's another on the back," she says, attempting to show me, but she's unable to reach it herself.

I find another safety pin where the saree remains taut against the blouse, and undo it carefully, so as to not prick Sita.

Immediately, the silky pallu falls off of her, displaying her curves for the slightest moment, before Sita pulls up her saree and covers herself. "That's it," she announces, "that's all I needed help with."

Once again, our eyes connect through the mirror. Her eyes look aggravated, pronouncing her frown. "Are you sure?" I can't help but tease, "maybe you need help with the blouse."

Her eyes widen. "Fuck off," she spits out, turning around in a split second. "That's not funny."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," I remind her why we are in this predicament at all. I tilt my head slightly, and look at her with a smirk. "My memory serves me just fine."

"Reddy," she exclaims, galled, as she pushes a palm against my mouth, causing me to stumble back against a shelf from the sudden move.

I grip her wrist within my hand, and tug it down, raising my eyebrows to continue teasing her. "Dhushyanth," I correct. "It's Dhushyanth for you."

Her eyes narrow, once again. "Why can't I call you Reddy?" She asks, yanking her wrist away from my grip.

"Because I said so."

"I don't take orders from you, I'm not your servant—"

"Sita," I speak calmly— for once, feeling the energy that a level tone gives you, the air of superiority in a conversation— "it wasn't an order, you are not my servant. You'd better find a different approach to this situation, you're not making it easy on either of us."