Adultery Priya Didi

[shailu4ever]

The Work of Hands
(Closeness chosen. Control tested again.)
 
They worked in silence at first.
Not the awkward kind.
Not the heavy kind.
But the kind that follows something almost said, something almost taken.
 
Priya divided the dough into small portions, rolling each one between her palms with practiced ease. The motion was familiar, grounding. The dough warmed under her hands, soft and pliant, yielding to the gentle pressure she applied.
 
She focused on its texture, the rhythm of her movements, the quiet certainty of a task she had done countless times.
 
"Focus on this."
"Just this."
 
The faint dusting of flour clung to her fingers, settling in the creases of her palms. Each roll, each fold, felt like a meditation, her awareness narrowing to the sensation of elasticity, the cool resistance giving way to supple softness.
 
Her wrists flexed naturally, forearms brushing lightly against the counter, the motion becoming a choreography she no longer had to think about.
 
The faint warmth from the sun filtering through the kitchen window touched her skin, mingling with the aroma of wheat and the faintly sweet tang of dough.
 
Ravi stood beside her, dusting the counter lightly with flour, movements careful, restrained.
 
He watched her hands more than he realized, the way her fingers curved, the subtle pressure she applied with precision, shaping something simple into something nourishing.
 
A faint warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading slowly, deliberately, as if each careful gesture of hers had left an imprint on him.
 
"Don’t step closer."
"Not yet."
 
The memory of her, her mouth, the curve of her lips, the heat of her breath as it brushed his cheek earlier, rose unbidden, insistent and impossible to ignore. He swallowed, grounding himself in the scbang of flour against wood, the muted scbang of the rolling pin, the ordinary rhythm of the kitchen.
 
She rolled the first chapati flat, lifting it gently, laying it aside with precise care.
“Pan’s ready,” he said, voice steady.
She nodded without looking at him, eyes fixed on the dough.
 
The first chapati hit the hot surface with a soft sound, a whisper of contact. The kitchen filled with the faint scent of toasting flour, warm and comforting. Ravi watched it puff slightly, bubbles forming and collapsing like breath, an imperceptible dance of air and heat.
 
Their hands brushed again as she reached for the next one.
 
This time, neither of them startled.
But both of them felt it.

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