Rama and Ramaa

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Rama opened his steel tiffin box and sat on the broken bench in Indira Park. The blueish red sky reminded him of Ayesha. Her tender fingers that cut the lean meat with the sturdy butcher’s knife on Sunday mornings. Ramaa stared at Rama’s beard that had a streak of grey.
“You are growing old, Rama,” Ramaa commented, pushing her hair, rough as colgate toothbrush bristles, behind her hair.
“Old enough to marry you?” Rama said, pushing himself closing to her.
“Get lost,” Ramaa said, punching Rama’s shoulder.
“Why Rams?” Rama chuckled till  his abdomen hurt.
“Who told you to do abs on periods?” Ramaa winked
Rama twisted her right arm. Ramaa left eye went red with rage and she loosened the group and punched him hard in the ribs.
“Bitch!” he groaned and sat there holding his abdomen, sore with the punches of yesterday.
**


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