All Strings Attached

Chapter Thirty Three

"I heard," she responds, tersely.

I contemplate pushing the subject, but decide against it until we get home, which should take a thirty more minutes at the most.

"What do you want for dinner?" I ask her. "Do you want to eat out?"

"Like a date?" She asks, raising her eyes to look at me as a shy smile crosses her face.

"Like a date," I confirm, "we haven't had many of those, have we?"

"We haven't had any of those," she corrects.

"Remember when I took you out to lunch?"

"You forced me to go out for lunch, that doesn't count."

"How about when I ordered you pizza because you were hangry, and then gave you company while you ate it?"

"You watched me eat, you didn't eat with me."

"That's only because you didn't share," I joke, eliciting a chuckle and some violence from her as she tries to pinch me.

"You were more annoying than adorable at that point," she promises me, "otherwise, it would've been different."

"And now I'm more adorable than annoying?" I know I'm pushing my luck, but when Sita looks up with a ridiculously adorable smile of her own, my heart is in a puddle in my chest.

"The scales have tipped," she agrees.

~.~.~.~.~

Sita physically pushes me out of the closet as she dresses up, insisting that watching the magic reduces the wow factor, though I cannot fathom being more wowed by my wife than I already am. Plus, I love watching that woman get ready, decking herself up, choosing her makeup, trying on different outfits— all of it.

It does help that Sita doesn't go back and forth on her options, though. She's pretty in and out; very decisive in that sense.

I turn on the news to watch reporters and politicians debate exit polls, and staking their pride about winning a majority for their respective parties, breaking out into arguments and putting on enough drama for TV channels' TRPs to skyrocket.

So far, talk about our constituencies; mine, dad's and Madhav mama's has been pretty positive. Though the fight for majority seems to be a tough one, there seems to be scope for optimism as we wait.

When my phone rings with a local party leader, I leave the room to take it in the balcony. He talks about the election, and how successful he believes it has been; a truly splendid campaign with the involvement of family and friends; the involvement of businessmen invoked a sense of trust with the people since development within industry and commerce was promised. He makes a point of raising me to the heavens throughout the call, and ends with a request for a crate of alcohol for people who participated in the campaign.

I assure him that he will receive it, and stress my gratitude for his help during the past few months.

When I turn to go back into the room, my eyes are blessed by my wife, now dressed in a shimmery brownish satin dress that clings to her curvy frame.

Her long hair is pulled to one side, and her neck is bare of any ornaments other than her mangalsutra. Sita's lips are painted in a pinkish colour that complements her cheeks and eyes, done beautifully with eyeliner.

I have to press a hand down on my chest to keep my heart from leaping right the fuck out of my ribcage. "You look..." I cannot help the sigh that escapes my lips as Sita bites down on her lower lip. Fucking hell, I do not want to leave the house.