Page 18 of The Pursuit
“I mean…” she paused, swallowing the unease, and diverted the topic instead. “I’m hungry.”
Smart woman!
“Have a seat, breakfast is almost ready.” I gestured to the small kitchen table.
“No thanks, I can cook for myself,” she waved me off.
I knew staying under one roof idea for the next few days was difficult for her, but I never thought she would turn down my offer to cook for us. Shrugging and letting her take over the breakfast duty, I moved aside. The pan was hot. Trisha tapped the egg against the marble surface with her left hand, ready to crack it into the pan for an omelette. However, as she prepared to do so, the pain shooting through her shoulder reminded her that her right hand was still out of commission due to the injury. She winced as she stretched her arm, feeling the discomfort and nervously looked at me.
“That bullet clearly affected your common sense too—you’re in no shape to be cooking,” I teased back.
Her eyes flashed at the teasing jab. “I’m perfectly capable. I just need...”
But she lingered off for a few seconds as I effortlessly cracked the eggs and began whisking before she continued the argument.
“You and I both know I’m still capable of handling missions, even in my current state. If your logical reasoning had been sharper, you wouldn’t have sidelined me from fieldwork for two weeks. I miss being out there, Krish.”
“Seriously?” I frowned. “When was the last time you took a break or went on a holiday?”
She didn’t reply and sat on the chair at the counter. I slid the cooked omelette onto a plate, handing it to her.
“Careful, it’s hot,” I warned.
Our fingers brushed and lingered. The domesticity of this moment felt dangerously intimate. With supreme effort, I focused on plating the eggs and toast, trying not to notice the soft sound of Trisha's legs brushing together under the table, or the towel slipping slightly from her hair, revealing the smooth skin of her neck... Clearing my throat, I continued our previous debate.
“I’ve seen your records. You hardly take a break or get off work. Why is that?” I probed, eating from my plate.
“I like to keep myself busy.”
“That means you don’t like solitude?”
“Do you?” she countered.
“Nah! Nobody does. Want to know my trick for coping with loneliness?” I queried.
Trisha looked at me sceptically, but there was a hint of curiosity in her face. “Alright, what’s your big secret trick for coping with solitude?”
I leaned in conspiratorially, thrilled by her closeness.
“It’s pretty embarrassing, but...” I lowered my voice to a dramatic whisper. “I talk to myself.”
Trisha’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Then, a smile tugged at her lips. “You talk to yourself?”
“Full-on conversations!” I said. “I’ll take both sides of a debate or just narrate what I’m doing. The mailmanprobably thinks I’m crazy.”
That elicited a laugh from Trisha, her eyes lighting up. “Do you use different voices and everything?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I nodded earnestly. “I have a whole range of accents and characters. You should hear my Russian accent; it’s a hoot.”
Trisha was really laughing now, shaking her head at my antics. “You’re ridiculous.” But her tone was full of amusement.
I grinned, buoyed by her reaction. “Hey, it works! Give it a shot the next time you’re lonely, and you’ll see.”
Our eyes held, and our smiles lingered. Just for a moment, the tension between us evaporated. There was only this shared laughter, this joy of being together. Maybe we couldn’t define or act on this undefinable connection yet. But I would treasure these small, perfect moments of bonding, and the sound of Trisha’s unrestrained laughter. For now, that was more than enough.
TRISHA
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