That evening, the city exhaled its heat, a thick, wet breath that clung to everything. This was a heat that melted intentions, leaving only instinct. The skin, alive with the night’s moisture, felt receptive, waiting for a current of cooler air, a flirtatious chance encounter.
Past the traffic, a darkness punctuated by invitations: the spill of light from a half-closed doorway, the low thrum of music from an unseen bar, the sudden, sharp fragrance of jasmine mixed with gobi manchurian. Destinations are mostly an abstract thought; the real journey is always the body telling one how things need to unfold.