Selvan Muruvan: HEARTSTRINGS

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By Selvan Muruvan

Even when she had just come out of the girls’ soccer game on that dreary day, the grey sky promising some unforeseen dread in it’s lumpy, moist blanket of clouds — Sabrina still looked deeply enchanting.

The reluctant drops, sporadic and lukewarm, rained on her rosebud cheeks, bruised with adrenaline and fatigue. The absent sunlight seeped through her azure eyes, turquoise-blue and mesmerising. Smudges of mud stood out on those cream-toned thighs and clung to her stubborn, perfect hair. I just stood there rooted, hypnotised by the overwhelming beauty. Stealing glimpses of her crimson lips and how the trainer shorts and baggy jersey further enhanced her immaculate form. 

I thought that she would at least look at me, the way I looked at her. Yes, we had a music lesson date, but even for just a moment, wouldn’t she even meet my eyes? All she could gawk at was the violin case that I just dropped to the ground, its yawning maw gaping in mockery. It was then that I knew, if it wasn’t for the music, she wouldn’t care for my affections. 

My heart waxed cold and hard, like the wood of this plaything. Polished to perfection, with unrequited love and varnished to a high poisonous gloss. My desperate yearning seemed to swim in the unfeeling mahogany instrument and plunged into every melody I strung for her. The sickly notes now swell menacingly in the ether. 

I swear, I will never play for her again, until I can stroke the naked chords with my heartstrings. She can keep the violin. It is embossed in the initial of her name, anyway… S, for Sabrina. I can’t look at it again. I won’t have it! 

It was then that I ran. Faster than the gathering storm’s hasty approach. Haunting, disjointed crescendo of ballads falling on my un-melodious head. 

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