The Longing

by Neha Parthasarathy

How in the moments I will never tell my mother about, I danced. Shameless, against thick-skinned men who looked as lonely as I did.

The thought of making love to them was easy. The music made my body fluid and light, enough to forget this was some form of faithlessness; that these men kissed

their wives with the same lips that kissed the freckled air between us, inhaled the
sweet sweat lining of my neck. Why did they

drift? I was young, yes, but that’s hardly an excuse. They should have looked deeper, known that the song, though not recognized in Spanish would

break them anyway, make their bodies work harder to find pleasure that should never
be birthed. But why did I not stop their wandering hands?

I do not know, though I will admit, it was easier to ignore it, too high off the poisonous serenade that found its way around us, insistent and remorseless.