I'm Not Sorry.

You would show up at my doorstep in your small flimsy Suzuki Alto within an hour of me calling you. We'd meet at a time of my convenience, even if it meant you having to cancel other engagements. You would drive, trying to engage in a conversation, while I started out the window barely listening to what you had to say. I've never been good at small talk but with you, I'd given it up all together. I had accepted that you would not have anything interesting to say and you never did. You spoke about topics I couldn't care less about. You were contented with your meager life and were unable to question concepts that had been drilled into your brain.

We'd arrive at your house and head straight for your room, lock the door shut and our dance would begin. I'd lay on the bed with you on top of me. I'd stare deep into your light brown eyes as I rubbed the fair skin of your broad jaw with my fingers. You'd grab onto the back of my neck and press your lips against mine. Your tong would explore the corners of my body as I made soft cries of pleasure. No hint of our relationship could be known to the world outside but within the four walls of your room, our bodies tangled up around one another in unabashed lust and passion.

After having relieved ourselves sexually, we'd clean up and you'd drive me back home in silence with a satisfied grin across my face. I had accepted that the sole purpose of our meetings was the fulfillment of our carnal desires. I had no interest in you other than your sweltering hot body. I imagined you felt the same way but was shocked to learn otherwise.

When, after one of our regular sessions of passionate sex, you told me you loved me, I was in complete shock. 'How could you have fallen in love with me when we didn't even talk,' I wondered. I looked at your face and felt absolutely nothing. I told you so and went home in a rickshaw. We haven't talked since. For two years, I have felt like a terrible person for not being able to reciprocate your love. I felt heartless and insensitive for not being able to feel what you had felt.  Last month, my cell phone beeped to removed all of my guilt. On Shab-e-Barat, you sent me the typical 'forgive me, for I have sinned' text message and reminded me just why I couldn't love you.

You were typical. You were one of them. One of the members of society. There was no way you could understand the qualms of an outsider like me and no way I could abide by your concepts of propriety and decency. I needed my freedom whilst you'd learned to live without it.

I no longer feel sorry for not loving you. You just weren't right for me and I wasn't right for you. I'm glad I stormed out that day because if I hadn't, I would have stormed out the next day.