nikitha ranjit

lavender life

There’s this person I know. So polished, like she’s breezed right through a Vogue cover shoot with her perfectly manicured nails. She wears barrettes and walks in straw wedges on cobblestone streets. She throws on sequinned jackets in the afternoons to go to cafes, drinking loose-leaf tea and talks to people about more than just the weather. I hate her.

  She hosts brunches where she serves sea blue macaroons she made at six in the morning and presents cocktails in coupes. She knots and twists her hair into pretty patterns, dots them with fresh flowers from her favourite florist. She smiles at the compliments, laughs easily.

    She goes for a run in the mornings in her matching sports bra and leggings, perspiration wetting flushed skin, highlighting perfect health. Her legs dance underneath flowy skirts or are outlined under stone washed denim. She doesn’t bother hiding the long scar below her knee from when she tripped over a sneaky tree root in the park. The extra kilos she carries lovingly in her yoga pants. The mole next to her navel. She’s so free with her body. It’s … sexy. I feel ill with jealousy.

     Her easy perfection even seeps into her apartment and everything else she touches. Her home is beautiful, safe. There are plants everywhere. Life growing from rich earthy mud; sometimes there’s a ladybug crawling over the wicker baskets. The leaves sweep across her antique coffee tables under the fan.      

     The ones near the window sway when rain pours outside, the smell of coffee wafting from the stove and crisp toast waiting for butter. Her home is a beautifully cultivated spa-like haven. Is it her temple or was it a temple of her? Thinking about her makes my heart drop, she’s so achingly flawless. I really hate her.

     I try to get out of bed at eight. I try again at 10. Once more at 12. My stomach rumbles. I imagine going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, having a shower. My plants have withered away without affection, my clothes, a dirty heap, forlorn without the care that they were promised. You pass by my bedroom and pause, as though you want to say something. But I see pain across your face and you walk on. My phone has stopped buzzing. No one tries anymore.

     Maybe today will be different. Maybe today I will finally attempt to make my first batch of macarons. I had spent an hour researching how to get the perfect shade of unicorn purple. Maybe today I will comb my matted hair into a glossy sheet of perfection. Maybe I could try to wear something exciting and step out for an errand. Maybe those satin pants my mother had given me last week with hope too painful to see. Maybe today I will try to be that person I imagine.

     But that black hole is winking at me. Flirting with me, waiting to pull me into its pit of isolation. So easy to fall back into its loveless arms. Arms always ready to hold me unconditionally.

     Maybe I will flirt back.