Captain Asterix
Fiction
David Swanson is a list of things she doesn’t have in her life. His eyes appear at the
bottom of her computer screen next to the Start button every time she tries to focus on her
work emails. They are blue. Set deep into sockets of thinly-lined pale skin that had turned
slightly red from late nights at his work. Sometimes they appear on the tap screens at the
entrances and exits of the DLR stations. The rest of him exists only within the walls of her
mobile phone. He talks constantly about music and eating, walks in the woods and Instagram
reels and Skyrim. He talks of the time when he and his brother cycled through the woods that
lay next to their childhood home in Suffolk, and the white owl that followed them home. The
bottom of her computer screen next to the Start button every time she tries to focus on her
work emails. They are blue. Set deep into sockets of thinly-lined pale skin that had turned
slightly red from late nights at his work. Sometimes they appear on the tap screens at the
entrances and exits of the DLR stations. The rest of him exists only within the walls of her
mobile phone. He talks constantly about music and eating, walks in the woods and Instagram
reels and Skyrim. He talks of the time when he and his brother cycled through the woods that
lay next to their childhood home in Suffolk, and the white owl that followed them home. The
boys rode in silence. The owl flew above them keeping pace, before it disappeared against
the orange dusk closer to the edge of the woods. Sima doesn’t believe him but doesn’t say
anything. Her Hindu friends believed white owls were a symbol of luck and prosperity to the
beholder. Two separate times in her childhood she had spotted white owls. She hadn’t felt
particularly lucky or prosperous after.
They swipe on each other on a dating app. Sima likes to swipe on every profile. She
likes to move her finger and watch their faces gently float out of the frame. She doesn’t read
any of the About Mes, or check if any of her matches are smokers or Geminis. Her match
with David Swanson goes unnoticed till he messages a bare naked hello two heartbeats before
midnight. She is already in bed and horny, and wonders if this new prospect might be
superior at sexting than the ones she had already wasted her day on. Except that she is
awestruck by the second photo on his profile where the intensity of his blue eyes makes it
seem like he is in the room with her. His stare is cold. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it to be so
cold, she thinks. Only when he sends her shirtless selfies taken in the bathroom on the second
floor of his parents’ house that has a motion sensing backlit mirror, do his eyes look kind. But
they still sear holes in Sima’s plainly brown face.
She responds the morning after. He replies. She says something funny. He replies
without any inkling of whether he finds it funny or not. Every sentence he manufactures is
steeped in calm. Sima wonders if he stares at her messages as stoically as he does at the
camera. She wonders if he moves his lips while reading.
I almost didn’t swipe on you. You look like you belong in some fancy
corporate world, probably with someone who uses the word ‘synergy’
unironically in daily conversation, he says over a WhatsApp text while she is at
work. A silent giggle escapes her. She turns her head and sneaks a glance at Barry who sits
two desks away. Barry does indeed use the word synergy a lot.
the orange dusk closer to the edge of the woods. Sima doesn’t believe him but doesn’t say
anything. Her Hindu friends believed white owls were a symbol of luck and prosperity to the
beholder. Two separate times in her childhood she had spotted white owls. She hadn’t felt
particularly lucky or prosperous after.
They swipe on each other on a dating app. Sima likes to swipe on every profile. She
likes to move her finger and watch their faces gently float out of the frame. She doesn’t read
any of the About Mes, or check if any of her matches are smokers or Geminis. Her match
with David Swanson goes unnoticed till he messages a bare naked hello two heartbeats before
midnight. She is already in bed and horny, and wonders if this new prospect might be
superior at sexting than the ones she had already wasted her day on. Except that she is
awestruck by the second photo on his profile where the intensity of his blue eyes makes it
seem like he is in the room with her. His stare is cold. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it to be so
cold, she thinks. Only when he sends her shirtless selfies taken in the bathroom on the second
floor of his parents’ house that has a motion sensing backlit mirror, do his eyes look kind. But
they still sear holes in Sima’s plainly brown face.
She responds the morning after. He replies. She says something funny. He replies
without any inkling of whether he finds it funny or not. Every sentence he manufactures is
steeped in calm. Sima wonders if he stares at her messages as stoically as he does at the
camera. She wonders if he moves his lips while reading.
I almost didn’t swipe on you. You look like you belong in some fancy
corporate world, probably with someone who uses the word ‘synergy’
unironically in daily conversation, he says over a WhatsApp text while she is at
work. A silent giggle escapes her. She turns her head and sneaks a glance at Barry who sits
two desks away. Barry does indeed use the word synergy a lot.
Two months pass and they remain unfluctuating at the talking stage. Both easy with
their words. Unguarded. Sima isn’t sure there is going to be any other stage. The existence of
her boyfriend Sam prevents it. David knows. He still talks. He still takes selfies for her sans
clothes. His muscled abdomen is clad in pasty white skin. She still talks. She still tells him
about being the eldest daughter of first generation Pakistani immigrants and adds small
chuckles at the end of each of her sentences. He listens intently but doesn’t chuckle. He asks
her if she would like to belong to him at the end of all the calls. They are stuck together on a
theme park ride that twirls out of control and they don’t know how to stop or free themselves.
When the call ends her phone locks itself and her wallpaper shows. A picture of her
and Sam, cheek to cheek, smiling. Abba has never been sure of Sam. Ammi has always been
ecstatic about it. Jewellery was already being set aside for her bridal trousseau. Five years
worth of relationship with a financially stable man who is maybe starting to show interest in
marriage is not to be thrown away for a man called David who makes her feel things through
text messages. I am in investment banking, she tells herself in a moment of dissociation and
spite. And he is a Duty Manager at B&Q. This is ridiculous.
The next time he calls, they talk of Japandi design principles and the erotic writings of
Anaïs Nin. He shares his Skyrim login details and password, which she has no use for. Then
he tells her about his somewhat unhealthy obsession with Legos and model trains. They are
on a video call where she is fully dressed but she doesn’t want to be and he is fully dressed
but he doesn’t want to be.
“So, we lived in Denmark for a bit when I was six or seven-ish and for my sixth
birthday we stayed in the Lego Hotel in Billund. Obviously visited Legoland. While exiting
the hotel they had like a whole barrel of mini Lego figures that were basically keyrings, and
we were allowed to select one. My brother took a pirate, mum chose a wizard and I chose a
Danish soldier. He sort of looks like the redcoats lifeguards with their bearskin hats. I named
their words. Unguarded. Sima isn’t sure there is going to be any other stage. The existence of
her boyfriend Sam prevents it. David knows. He still talks. He still takes selfies for her sans
clothes. His muscled abdomen is clad in pasty white skin. She still talks. She still tells him
about being the eldest daughter of first generation Pakistani immigrants and adds small
chuckles at the end of each of her sentences. He listens intently but doesn’t chuckle. He asks
her if she would like to belong to him at the end of all the calls. They are stuck together on a
theme park ride that twirls out of control and they don’t know how to stop or free themselves.
When the call ends her phone locks itself and her wallpaper shows. A picture of her
and Sam, cheek to cheek, smiling. Abba has never been sure of Sam. Ammi has always been
ecstatic about it. Jewellery was already being set aside for her bridal trousseau. Five years
worth of relationship with a financially stable man who is maybe starting to show interest in
marriage is not to be thrown away for a man called David who makes her feel things through
text messages. I am in investment banking, she tells herself in a moment of dissociation and
spite. And he is a Duty Manager at B&Q. This is ridiculous.
The next time he calls, they talk of Japandi design principles and the erotic writings of
Anaïs Nin. He shares his Skyrim login details and password, which she has no use for. Then
he tells her about his somewhat unhealthy obsession with Legos and model trains. They are
on a video call where she is fully dressed but she doesn’t want to be and he is fully dressed
but he doesn’t want to be.
“So, we lived in Denmark for a bit when I was six or seven-ish and for my sixth
birthday we stayed in the Lego Hotel in Billund. Obviously visited Legoland. While exiting
the hotel they had like a whole barrel of mini Lego figures that were basically keyrings, and
we were allowed to select one. My brother took a pirate, mum chose a wizard and I chose a
Danish soldier. He sort of looks like the redcoats lifeguards with their bearskin hats. I named
him too.” He pauses and stretches his hand out of the screen to grab a bunch of keys. “Still
have him,” he says while holding the bunch up for Sima to see.
She sits up straight and squints to take in as much detail as she can. The soldier is
pretty beat up. It has lost his bottom half and only the head, arms and torso remain. The
plastic is scratched in places and the corners are shiny from regular use. There are other
things on the keyring apart from a few keys—a tab from a red bull can, a green Lego brick
and two differently sized Danish krone that have been hung from the keyring through the
holes in their middles. Sima has nothing to show-and-tell, she smiles instead. “What did you
name him?” she asks.
He hesitates and peels his cold eyes away from the camera. “Captain Asterix.”
“Captain Asterix?” She asks.
“Yes—” he hesitates again and his pallid cheeks start to gain colour. “Captain
Asterix—Swanson.” He lowers his voice to a whisper at the last word. He barely meets her
eyes.
Her phone shakes in her hand as she is unable to control her laughter. He laughs too
but it’s more a series of reluctant guffaws, as if the existence of that name he chose as a six or
seven-ish year old is ludicrous.
David is not shy of his body. Sima imagines no man with his chiselled musculature
borne of lugging equipment, glassy and gleaming through swathes of sweat, would be
ashamed of their body. He is not shy to show it off on camera either. And while he does,
Sima watches. There is no harm in watching, of course, says a whisper in her ear. The
whisper that always shows up when she doesn’t need it to. Like a floating body next to her
with shrewd eyes and a silky voice. The Whisper.
Back in Notting Hill, a high school boy she had stripped for had pointed out how non-
existent her breasts were. That did not stop him from trying to press them. Hard, till she
have him,” he says while holding the bunch up for Sima to see.
She sits up straight and squints to take in as much detail as she can. The soldier is
pretty beat up. It has lost his bottom half and only the head, arms and torso remain. The
plastic is scratched in places and the corners are shiny from regular use. There are other
things on the keyring apart from a few keys—a tab from a red bull can, a green Lego brick
and two differently sized Danish krone that have been hung from the keyring through the
holes in their middles. Sima has nothing to show-and-tell, she smiles instead. “What did you
name him?” she asks.
He hesitates and peels his cold eyes away from the camera. “Captain Asterix.”
“Captain Asterix?” She asks.
“Yes—” he hesitates again and his pallid cheeks start to gain colour. “Captain
Asterix—Swanson.” He lowers his voice to a whisper at the last word. He barely meets her
eyes.
Her phone shakes in her hand as she is unable to control her laughter. He laughs too
but it’s more a series of reluctant guffaws, as if the existence of that name he chose as a six or
seven-ish year old is ludicrous.
David is not shy of his body. Sima imagines no man with his chiselled musculature
borne of lugging equipment, glassy and gleaming through swathes of sweat, would be
ashamed of their body. He is not shy to show it off on camera either. And while he does,
Sima watches. There is no harm in watching, of course, says a whisper in her ear. The
whisper that always shows up when she doesn’t need it to. Like a floating body next to her
with shrewd eyes and a silky voice. The Whisper.
Back in Notting Hill, a high school boy she had stripped for had pointed out how non-
existent her breasts were. That did not stop him from trying to press them. Hard, till she
squealed. But that had certainly prevented her from uninhibitedly showing them off to the
men that came later. Until Sam. He compares them to inverted teacups every time he gets a
glance and a chance to touch. So now whenever David calls, she has a strong urge to peel her
clothes off just to observe his reaction. To see his blue eyes fixate on the screen like the way
they do during the gaps in their conversation when he just stares at her face like he was trying
to solder it onto his brain.
__
“It’s not very cold but the wind is ghastly,” Sam says, leaning back on the upholstered
headboard in his hotel room on the fourteenth floor that overlooked Manchester’s Deansgate
neighbourhood.
Sima nods.
“They absolutely do not like us for the renewal,” he continues. “We’re going hard on
the due diligence, which I don’t think they expected.”
Sima nods harder.
She is going to drift out of the conversation soon, but she doesn’t want Sam to notice.
She raises her right hand, around the wrist of which shone a bright new bracelet. She rocks it
so the cubic zirconias flash blue and white sparkles on her ceiling. She nods more while Sam
talks. A notification from David appears at the top of her screen. She flits it away with a
finger. When the phone call ends she reminds herself that she is in a long-term committed
relationship and tosses the phone away from her without checking her messages. She opens
her laptop and scrolls through Pinterest instead, marking every green and orange and red
bridal lehenga she finds inspiring. She takes her night medication and turns her head thrice to
glance at her phone on the bed.
men that came later. Until Sam. He compares them to inverted teacups every time he gets a
glance and a chance to touch. So now whenever David calls, she has a strong urge to peel her
clothes off just to observe his reaction. To see his blue eyes fixate on the screen like the way
they do during the gaps in their conversation when he just stares at her face like he was trying
to solder it onto his brain.
__
“It’s not very cold but the wind is ghastly,” Sam says, leaning back on the upholstered
headboard in his hotel room on the fourteenth floor that overlooked Manchester’s Deansgate
neighbourhood.
Sima nods.
“They absolutely do not like us for the renewal,” he continues. “We’re going hard on
the due diligence, which I don’t think they expected.”
Sima nods harder.
She is going to drift out of the conversation soon, but she doesn’t want Sam to notice.
She raises her right hand, around the wrist of which shone a bright new bracelet. She rocks it
so the cubic zirconias flash blue and white sparkles on her ceiling. She nods more while Sam
talks. A notification from David appears at the top of her screen. She flits it away with a
finger. When the phone call ends she reminds herself that she is in a long-term committed
relationship and tosses the phone away from her without checking her messages. She opens
her laptop and scrolls through Pinterest instead, marking every green and orange and red
bridal lehenga she finds inspiring. She takes her night medication and turns her head thrice to
glance at her phone on the bed.
I think this is pretty, the message says, captioned under the photo of a baby
pink lehenga spread in a voluminous circle around the model. Although, I don’t know
if this is what you’re looking for at all.
Sima replies with only a smile emoji. She doesn’t know what she is looking for. Think
less Sima, she thinks. She argues with The Whisper. She thinks of Sam. He is like one of
those quiz books from her childhood she has read so many times that she knows the answers
to all the questions. David on the other hand is a new book. Spine not cracked. Yet to be held
up to her nose for a sniff. She waits with bated breath and wills every other message to be
from David. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is not. When it is, she feels a thousand pinpricks
of warmth inside. Like the time she delightedly chewed popping candy that was a Secret
Santa gift, while standing in the middle of an office that smelled of printer ink. She waits for
her Venti Caramel Macchiato at the Starbucks nearest to her work. She checks her messages
again. The photo of the pink lehenga waits for her. A simple question follows after: We
haven’t even met, do you still feel guilty?
At lunch she and Mols watch the news on Barry’s phone. The Prime Minister talks of
mass lockdowns across the country. She looks around. Others have watched it too. Half the
office starts guessing when notices might appear in their inboxes. The other half rolls their
eyes and talks of SARS flu. Before winter has a chance to end, the company changes policies
on coming into the office. They define new ways to wash hands. The Cough is here, they say.
She struggles to find anti-bacterial wipes, face masks or cleaning agents at her local
supermarket. But she spends the weekend braving East London traffic for over two miles to
gather bare necessities for herself and her elderly neighbour.
The days become lonely and isolated, but she is not a stranger to either. Sam calls.
She laughs at his less blessed colleagues. He will be in London in a month, he says. She nods.
After the call she paces in her room not knowing whether she is hungry or thirsty. Maybe I
pink lehenga spread in a voluminous circle around the model. Although, I don’t know
if this is what you’re looking for at all.
Sima replies with only a smile emoji. She doesn’t know what she is looking for. Think
less Sima, she thinks. She argues with The Whisper. She thinks of Sam. He is like one of
those quiz books from her childhood she has read so many times that she knows the answers
to all the questions. David on the other hand is a new book. Spine not cracked. Yet to be held
up to her nose for a sniff. She waits with bated breath and wills every other message to be
from David. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is not. When it is, she feels a thousand pinpricks
of warmth inside. Like the time she delightedly chewed popping candy that was a Secret
Santa gift, while standing in the middle of an office that smelled of printer ink. She waits for
her Venti Caramel Macchiato at the Starbucks nearest to her work. She checks her messages
again. The photo of the pink lehenga waits for her. A simple question follows after: We
haven’t even met, do you still feel guilty?
At lunch she and Mols watch the news on Barry’s phone. The Prime Minister talks of
mass lockdowns across the country. She looks around. Others have watched it too. Half the
office starts guessing when notices might appear in their inboxes. The other half rolls their
eyes and talks of SARS flu. Before winter has a chance to end, the company changes policies
on coming into the office. They define new ways to wash hands. The Cough is here, they say.
She struggles to find anti-bacterial wipes, face masks or cleaning agents at her local
supermarket. But she spends the weekend braving East London traffic for over two miles to
gather bare necessities for herself and her elderly neighbour.
The days become lonely and isolated, but she is not a stranger to either. Sam calls.
She laughs at his less blessed colleagues. He will be in London in a month, he says. She nods.
After the call she paces in her room not knowing whether she is hungry or thirsty. Maybe I
should take a shower, she thinks. I should call Ammi. She stops pacing and looks at her nails
and wonders if she should order a home manicure kit to get them ready for a ring. She opens
eBay and types in Lego vintage guard figures. The search results are not what she is
looking for. She searches a few more times with different keywords until she finds what she
is looking for—a little Lego soldier, 80th guard, red vest and a black conical cap. Only one
piece available. It is not in mint condition because of the small, barely visible scratches and
the oldness of the plastic, shiny at the corners. But he is whole and he is smiling and he is
available. She quickly places the order, surprised at its price and at her own actions. Her
breath sticks in her throat and she is unable to move for the next hour.
A week later she receives a photo from David. Two Lego guards—one half, one
whole—lie together bound by a single keyring. They are of the same but they are not the
same. The message says, Are you trying to make me fall for you?
They go no-contact for two months right after she gives him her address. He begged
me for it, she tells herself. What choice did I have?
The truth is that he demanded it. Repeatedly, the intensity of his demand turning up a
notch each time. She sends it. When the reality of sharing her home address with a man she
hasn’t even met sinks in, she stops responding to his messages or calls.
You know I’m not going to just drop by without announcing.
Did you get the ring? Did Sam propose? Tell me.
Are you really not going to answer?
What did I do? Is this punishment for something?
Is this your real address? Or are you playing?
In case you never reply, I wish you well.
Six messages over seven days. A boyfriend hanging out in her tiny bedroom and
being annoyed at the rest of her flatmates. And no ring. She reads those messages after
and wonders if she should order a home manicure kit to get them ready for a ring. She opens
eBay and types in Lego vintage guard figures. The search results are not what she is
looking for. She searches a few more times with different keywords until she finds what she
is looking for—a little Lego soldier, 80th guard, red vest and a black conical cap. Only one
piece available. It is not in mint condition because of the small, barely visible scratches and
the oldness of the plastic, shiny at the corners. But he is whole and he is smiling and he is
available. She quickly places the order, surprised at its price and at her own actions. Her
breath sticks in her throat and she is unable to move for the next hour.
A week later she receives a photo from David. Two Lego guards—one half, one
whole—lie together bound by a single keyring. They are of the same but they are not the
same. The message says, Are you trying to make me fall for you?
They go no-contact for two months right after she gives him her address. He begged
me for it, she tells herself. What choice did I have?
The truth is that he demanded it. Repeatedly, the intensity of his demand turning up a
notch each time. She sends it. When the reality of sharing her home address with a man she
hasn’t even met sinks in, she stops responding to his messages or calls.
You know I’m not going to just drop by without announcing.
Did you get the ring? Did Sam propose? Tell me.
Are you really not going to answer?
What did I do? Is this punishment for something?
Is this your real address? Or are you playing?
In case you never reply, I wish you well.
Six messages over seven days. A boyfriend hanging out in her tiny bedroom and
being annoyed at the rest of her flatmates. And no ring. She reads those messages after
turning off the blue tick mark option on her WhatsApp settings. Then she rereads them over
the next week, little green speech bubbles of shame, her heart drooping at each.
When Christmas rolls around and her co-workers—the ones that survive the corporate
culling—have finally gotten used to using the mute buttons on their screens during meetings,
it seems like they have been doing this forever, not just for a handful of months. One morning
she sits on her toilet, quietly pulls the jumper over her head and crumples it up to fit on her
lap. She runs her fingers through one side of her hair, raises her phone with the other and
takes a selfie of herself in her bra. She sends it to David.
You’re perfect, comes the reply.
__
The lights outside your window look pretty.
As soon as she reads the message she scrambles out of her bed and hurries across the
room. It is dark out and from her room on the first floor, through the naked branches of the
willow, not much of the road is visible. She sees the bright red letter box that stands across
the road, right next to a bus stop that is the loneliest stop she knows of. In the two years that
she has lived in this flat, only her and her elderly neighbour who lives across the street and
walks with a cane, have been the sole users of it. She sees the raised curb and the houses that
stand behind the footpath. The houses are sparsely festooned with Christmas lights.
Expensive cars roll in and out of the driveway. Well-dressed men and women go in and out
of the front doors at civilized hours. She scans the frozen dark keenly but sees not a soul. She
frowns. She steps back and takes a quick look at the fairy lights she has haphazardly strung
through the blinds of the only window in her room. The lights don’t flash or sputter like some
of her neighbours’ do. She looks back at the plate of food she has fixed herself for dinner. A
sausage, a bread roll, three triangles of cheese with the image of a cheerful cow on the
wrappers, ketchup, and a whole cucumber sliced and smeared in chilli oil.
the next week, little green speech bubbles of shame, her heart drooping at each.
When Christmas rolls around and her co-workers—the ones that survive the corporate
culling—have finally gotten used to using the mute buttons on their screens during meetings,
it seems like they have been doing this forever, not just for a handful of months. One morning
she sits on her toilet, quietly pulls the jumper over her head and crumples it up to fit on her
lap. She runs her fingers through one side of her hair, raises her phone with the other and
takes a selfie of herself in her bra. She sends it to David.
You’re perfect, comes the reply.
__
The lights outside your window look pretty.
As soon as she reads the message she scrambles out of her bed and hurries across the
room. It is dark out and from her room on the first floor, through the naked branches of the
willow, not much of the road is visible. She sees the bright red letter box that stands across
the road, right next to a bus stop that is the loneliest stop she knows of. In the two years that
she has lived in this flat, only her and her elderly neighbour who lives across the street and
walks with a cane, have been the sole users of it. She sees the raised curb and the houses that
stand behind the footpath. The houses are sparsely festooned with Christmas lights.
Expensive cars roll in and out of the driveway. Well-dressed men and women go in and out
of the front doors at civilized hours. She scans the frozen dark keenly but sees not a soul. She
frowns. She steps back and takes a quick look at the fairy lights she has haphazardly strung
through the blinds of the only window in her room. The lights don’t flash or sputter like some
of her neighbours’ do. She looks back at the plate of food she has fixed herself for dinner. A
sausage, a bread roll, three triangles of cheese with the image of a cheerful cow on the
wrappers, ketchup, and a whole cucumber sliced and smeared in chilli oil.
Where are you? She replies back. Were you here? Why didn’t you tell
me?!
For two moments she hopes that the answer is Lol, just kidding.
But when her screen lights up it says, I was there. Took the train down to
meet James, and asked him to drive by your place. Didn’t think you’d
want to meet me, so didn’t bother letting you know. Didn’t want to
make it awkward, I guess.
As has become a habit for her with his messages, she reads and rereads them over and
over again till it is three in the morning and she can’t keep her eyes open any longer. This is
far from cheating, The Whisper says. You haven’t met. You haven’t held hands. You’re
friends. Swallow your hurt.
They call each other at the edge of night. They each open their own packet of cheese
and onion crisps on the video call. She tries to identify the objects behind him and around
him. She imagines herself in his room, curled up on the tall back gaming chair with the towel
hanging from the headrest. She imagines him in her room, sitting astride the antique French
chair with the pink upholstered seat. He talks her through the Skyrim setup. She repeatedly
tells him that she is not interested. The CD he sent her had stayed untouched on her desk for a
month after she received it. The setup is tedious and technical, but she is reminded of the
innumerable hours she spent playing Prince of Persia and Oni as a teenager. She does as she
is told. He allows her to log in to his account. His avatar has a pointy nose, slim build with a
red cape wrapped around the shoulders.
“Cas is a High Elf,” David says. He moves the character slowly in the environment.
They’re standing in the middle of a valley, the ground of which is rocky and grassy in
patches. There are a few huts and cottages in the distance and a sturdy wooden bridge to
cross. It is calming.
“Cas,” Sima repeats after him. “Why is his entire name in capitals?”
me?!
For two moments she hopes that the answer is Lol, just kidding.
But when her screen lights up it says, I was there. Took the train down to
meet James, and asked him to drive by your place. Didn’t think you’d
want to meet me, so didn’t bother letting you know. Didn’t want to
make it awkward, I guess.
As has become a habit for her with his messages, she reads and rereads them over and
over again till it is three in the morning and she can’t keep her eyes open any longer. This is
far from cheating, The Whisper says. You haven’t met. You haven’t held hands. You’re
friends. Swallow your hurt.
They call each other at the edge of night. They each open their own packet of cheese
and onion crisps on the video call. She tries to identify the objects behind him and around
him. She imagines herself in his room, curled up on the tall back gaming chair with the towel
hanging from the headrest. She imagines him in her room, sitting astride the antique French
chair with the pink upholstered seat. He talks her through the Skyrim setup. She repeatedly
tells him that she is not interested. The CD he sent her had stayed untouched on her desk for a
month after she received it. The setup is tedious and technical, but she is reminded of the
innumerable hours she spent playing Prince of Persia and Oni as a teenager. She does as she
is told. He allows her to log in to his account. His avatar has a pointy nose, slim build with a
red cape wrapped around the shoulders.
“Cas is a High Elf,” David says. He moves the character slowly in the environment.
They’re standing in the middle of a valley, the ground of which is rocky and grassy in
patches. There are a few huts and cottages in the distance and a sturdy wooden bridge to
cross. It is calming.
“Cas,” Sima repeats after him. “Why is his entire name in capitals?”
“Uh, yeah. C-A-S. That stands for Capt—”
“Ah okay,” she exclaims. “You’re really obsessed with Asterix, aren’t you?”
“I was. But then who isn’t?”
Sima thinks back to an entire shelf back in her childhood room dedicated to Asterix
and Tintin comics. Brightly coloured slim book after slim book. And lovingly dusted every
week by the help. She shrugs. “Yeah, I get it.”
They spend the whole of a grey Saturday on the game, till she complains about getting
a headache and gets up to go look for food. He doesn’t stop her. He has a mini fridge full of
IPAs in his room and a wicker tray full of Haribos and Walkers crisps. They eat in silence
staring at whatever body parts of each other are visible on camera.
His nose is pointy. “Just like Cas,” she says. He chuckles.
His face is narrow and bony. “Just like Cas,” she says. He chuckles again.
He tells her how his brother, Michael, who is two years older, is going through a bitter
divorce. He has a framed picture of him and his nephews next to his console. The frame is
bright orange in colour, clearly hand painted by pre-adolescent boys. She tells him how
windy it is Manchester, and of the new intern in her team who is an absolute clown. He asks
how she plans to solve that problem. They debate whether indigo blue or cherry red is the
most appropriate colour for a hallway that he plans on decorating with Moroccan motifs,
when he builds a house from scratch in Windermere of the Lake District. She will have a
reading nook just for herself, he promises.
When dusk descends on the grey day, he says, “Break up with him. I want you.”
They stare at each other again. He does not blink. She is not surprised at the demand
but is taken aback at the plainness of his words.
“Break up with him,” he repeats. “I want you to stay with me. And you’ll do as you’re
told.”
“Ah okay,” she exclaims. “You’re really obsessed with Asterix, aren’t you?”
“I was. But then who isn’t?”
Sima thinks back to an entire shelf back in her childhood room dedicated to Asterix
and Tintin comics. Brightly coloured slim book after slim book. And lovingly dusted every
week by the help. She shrugs. “Yeah, I get it.”
They spend the whole of a grey Saturday on the game, till she complains about getting
a headache and gets up to go look for food. He doesn’t stop her. He has a mini fridge full of
IPAs in his room and a wicker tray full of Haribos and Walkers crisps. They eat in silence
staring at whatever body parts of each other are visible on camera.
His nose is pointy. “Just like Cas,” she says. He chuckles.
His face is narrow and bony. “Just like Cas,” she says. He chuckles again.
He tells her how his brother, Michael, who is two years older, is going through a bitter
divorce. He has a framed picture of him and his nephews next to his console. The frame is
bright orange in colour, clearly hand painted by pre-adolescent boys. She tells him how
windy it is Manchester, and of the new intern in her team who is an absolute clown. He asks
how she plans to solve that problem. They debate whether indigo blue or cherry red is the
most appropriate colour for a hallway that he plans on decorating with Moroccan motifs,
when he builds a house from scratch in Windermere of the Lake District. She will have a
reading nook just for herself, he promises.
When dusk descends on the grey day, he says, “Break up with him. I want you.”
They stare at each other again. He does not blink. She is not surprised at the demand
but is taken aback at the plainness of his words.
“Break up with him,” he repeats. “I want you to stay with me. And you’ll do as you’re
told.”
The camera fogs up. Or maybe I am losing consciousness, Sima thinks. The radiator
has overheated her small room and she feels faint.
__
In February, when her messages and calls are ignored two days in a row, she doesn’t
worry. You didn’t cheat, The Whisper says. Worrying is for fools who cheat. She stares at the
double check marks under each message that are still grey, and momentarily wonders if she
should send more Instagram reels across. She resists. A week into March—exactly a year
since she and Mols and Barry watched the Prime Minister’s speech—David’s brother
Michael, who is two years older and going through a bitter divorce, replies to her messages
and informs her of David’s death. He caught the Cough at work, Michael writes. His lungs
gave out. He was in isolation the last week of his life. Michael shares a link to a Facebook
post that is an invitation to a funeral of sorts. Of sorts. Of memories, she thinks. Of speeches
spoken into the void since they are unable to give him a proper funeral. She doesn’t have
either of the brothers as Facebook friends, so she cannot access the link. She doesn’t want to
be at the funeral. She is not a real being. She is a reflection in a motion sensing backlit mirror.
She is the sole occupant of an imaginary book nook in the Lake District. She opens the
second image on the dating app instead. She thinks she should cry and waits for the tears to
come but they don’t. She realizes that Michael may have seen the racy photos she and David
had exchanged. She doesn’t worry about that either. She doesn’t want to delete anything.
When the world cobbles together the courage to walk out of their homes and into the
shops, Sima and Sam visit the Starbucks next to her office building. He pays for his coffee
and gives the barista a polite smile, the sort of smile an older man might give to passersby on
a hike. Sam has never told her he wants her with any kind of authority. He will not build a
house from scratch with a cherry red corridors. He complains about the coffee being burnt.
Sima nods.
has overheated her small room and she feels faint.
__
In February, when her messages and calls are ignored two days in a row, she doesn’t
worry. You didn’t cheat, The Whisper says. Worrying is for fools who cheat. She stares at the
double check marks under each message that are still grey, and momentarily wonders if she
should send more Instagram reels across. She resists. A week into March—exactly a year
since she and Mols and Barry watched the Prime Minister’s speech—David’s brother
Michael, who is two years older and going through a bitter divorce, replies to her messages
and informs her of David’s death. He caught the Cough at work, Michael writes. His lungs
gave out. He was in isolation the last week of his life. Michael shares a link to a Facebook
post that is an invitation to a funeral of sorts. Of sorts. Of memories, she thinks. Of speeches
spoken into the void since they are unable to give him a proper funeral. She doesn’t have
either of the brothers as Facebook friends, so she cannot access the link. She doesn’t want to
be at the funeral. She is not a real being. She is a reflection in a motion sensing backlit mirror.
She is the sole occupant of an imaginary book nook in the Lake District. She opens the
second image on the dating app instead. She thinks she should cry and waits for the tears to
come but they don’t. She realizes that Michael may have seen the racy photos she and David
had exchanged. She doesn’t worry about that either. She doesn’t want to delete anything.
When the world cobbles together the courage to walk out of their homes and into the
shops, Sima and Sam visit the Starbucks next to her office building. He pays for his coffee
and gives the barista a polite smile, the sort of smile an older man might give to passersby on
a hike. Sam has never told her he wants her with any kind of authority. He will not build a
house from scratch with a cherry red corridors. He complains about the coffee being burnt.
Sima nods.
That night, like so many nights before it, she logs into Skyrim. The light from the
monitors floods her dark room and hurts her eyes. Captain Asterix Swanson, the High Elf,
stands along the Karth River. Majestic in his red cape, his whole torso bobbing with every
breath, staring at the humongous waterfalls. The last ones David had seen. She moves the
character slowly in the environment. She memorizes the scenery one more time.
monitors floods her dark room and hurts her eyes. Captain Asterix Swanson, the High Elf,
stands along the Karth River. Majestic in his red cape, his whole torso bobbing with every
breath, staring at the humongous waterfalls. The last ones David had seen. She moves the
character slowly in the environment. She memorizes the scenery one more time.
Amrita Chowdhury is a writer of fiction based in London, UK. She was a contributor to The Statesman and The Nottingham Post. Her work has appeared in Hippocampus Magazine, Bridge Eight, Barely South Review, Mud Season Review, The Bangalore Mirror, and The Writing Cooperative. Her spirit animal is pizza