Sonny

I have a crush on Sonny. It could veritably have everything to do with his name, for if he was a Frank, or a Frantz or a Fritz (what's with me and my disdain for Germanic male names? hmmm), it probably wouldn't swim so gracefully in my mind or be as fun to mutter under my breath. Sonny. Sonny.  It is like the fire star in the sky and the gender I hope to give birth to. Aaaahhh. Sonny.

*Sigh*.

Sonny and I spend half an hour together, just me and him, at least once a week. He is the one that takes me back to work after my shift at the school in the slum. We chitchat about India and food. We gossip about colleagues. We laugh at my Hindi mistakes and my faulty pronunciation. We hang out. We share time. I love this ride back home. AAAND he is a devilishly good driver. Wowie- the way he masters the stick shift and weaves in and out of traffic (cars and cows. Yes; cattle are everywhere in India, not just the field. Sacred cow- don't hit her!) is admirable.

Sonny.

It's because he has a naughty crooked smile. It's because he has a scar on his cheek that tells of his past gang affiliation. It's because he is responsible and macho.  It's because when he talks he is so present, his eyes arrest you. There's no option but to look and listen. It's because he laughs a deep, mellifluous laugh. It's because he looks at me with sex written all over his gaze. And, it's because when I saw him onstage dancing Bhangra, a little piece of me crumbled at his feet.

"B and Sonny", he says in his delicious Indian English, flashing me that winning and naughty smile, his left hand confidently on the stick shift, his other hand drumming to Indian tunage at the steering wheel... "It has too nice a ring to it- isn't it?"

Yes Sonny. Whatever you say..

*sigh*