And She Kissed a God

2. Luck

I stood beside my bed, taking blankets out of the shelf. She convinced me that I had imagined the sound. It happened to me before. A few glasses of alcohol and my mind would get a life of its own.

"Sam?" I called. "What blanket do you want?"

I got no reply.

Her name was not just Sam. Samidha, but I go by Sam; she told me the day we met. I wondered where her parents found that name. Yes, it sounded so unique and fascinating, but it was so old-fashioned. She hated if anyone addressed her as Samidha.

I met her at a story reading session for the first time. Dressed in a long blue-dotted white Kurti, she read her latest novel to the readers. I was one of her readers; perhaps the only one who took her home. After she had a sleepover in my apartment, never in a hundred nights in our relationship had I recalled how exactly things escalated between us.

"Samidha," I screamed.

It was movie night. She was in the living room arranging the projector. She didn't like the 42-inch television I bought during the holidays.

I took a white blanket and put it on my shoulder. Then fished out her favourite red blanket; it had bunny ears knitted along the edges. Usually, after the sex, she would spread it across us and we'd sleep to the extreme sides of the bed, wrapped under it as if we got no space to sleep.

"What are you doing?"

I turned around to her voice. She was standing leaned to the entrance; her saree crumpled all along, hands folded and hair loosened. My favourite posture.

"Nothing."

"You are thinking about something, aren't you?"

I blew raspberries. "I'm not."

"Don't lie. Your face got all red. It's cute, though."

Throwing the blanket on her face, I walked out of the room. "You are so full of yourself."

She ran behind me. "Oh, come on now. Don't be coy. I just guessed. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Hey," I said, turning around and pointing a finger at her. "What a man thinks when he looks at his girlfriend's favourite blanket is his own business. You don't ask. You don't guess."

She stared, nodding along to my words, and smiling at me.

"Are we watching the movie or not?"

"Of course," she said, pushing me into the living room. "I got a nice rom-com for you."

"Oh god, I can't sit through another rom-com. What's wrong with you?"

Sam whirled around the arm of the sofa. "You need to understand human emotions. There's a teenage girl waiting to get her heartbroken. Let's not delay any more."

"I have no freedom in this house," I mumbled. Then I threw my blanket on the sofa and walked near the kitchen. "Can I get a glass of wine at least?"

She giggled. "Sure. Get me—wait!"

She leapt forward and pulled me back from the kitchen entrance.

Then I heard it again—that sound: a thump.

I jumped on my toes, clutching her shoulders. "Did you hear it this time?"

She chortled aloud. "Again? What is happening to you? There's no sound."

"Why did you pull me then?"

Her fingers went into her hair, circling and making rings. It was her nervous tic. "I just . . . wanted to hug you, you know."

I bent over to her face. "Is everything okay?"

She giggled. "Yes, of course. I mean . . . I missed you. You were working a lot and . . ."

Sam was so absorbed in her words; she didn't notice me staring at the kitchen door behind her; a metal piece stuck in the door.

"What's that?" I lifted my hand and ran my fingers on it. It was cold, round and felt like a bolt. But it was skinnier and longer than an average bolt.

Sam said nothing. She stood there, her eyes blank.

Then she let out a sigh and pulled my fingers off it. "It's a bullet." She mumbled.

I jerked my body back. "What . . . where did that come from?"

"There's a shooter in my apartment trying to kill me," she said. My terror did not disturb her voice.

I swiftly turned to the balcony and looked outside. Except for the lights, I found nothing suspicious in her apartment. I turned back. "Why does anyone want to kill you?" My voice was clearly off the normal decibels.

"Calm down." She put her hands around my neck, drew me into a hug. "I always wanted to tell you this, but thought you wouldn't believe me."

"Tell me what, Sam?"

"It's better if I show it to you." We broke from the hug. "Walk with me into the kitchen. Don't go off the path, alright."

I wasn't completely listening to her. A part of me was paralyzed. She pulled me by my hand and I followed her.

As soon as we walked near the window, the sounds began. Unlike before, I could see the bullets hitting the objects in the kitchen. They kept hammering over the objects and walls of my house. I wished that I was drunk, and it was just a dream. She held my hand, and I felt her icy palm on me. It wasn't a dream, not by a long shot. I stood straight, but with every hit of a bullet, my body convulsed in panic.

I was facing the window whilst she was in front of me, with her eyes sparkling even in that chaos. She stood as my shield blocking those bullets. Now, I could see the shadows lurking in her apartment.

Two rough guesses; either those people were terrible shooters or she was unbelievably lucky. My conscience preferred the second choice because the bullets redirected all over the room.

"How is this even possible?" I said, my voice trembling.

"Anything earthly can't kill me," she said, walking away from the window and taking me with her. "Do you believe me now?"

"What do you want me to believe?"

"I cannot die, so..." she said, tilting her head.

"So, you are an immortal?"

She shrugged. "I'm just lucky."

Outside it had begun to rain.

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