BACK TO MINE!

Is it possible to scrub away memories with a rag, a bottle of Colin and sheer upper body strength? No, but tomorrow I will try.

I’m not sure why I invited him to come to my place in the first place. It was one of those intemperate gestures of largesse made on the spur of the moment when I was flush with endorphins and the discoloured memories of him were still freshly manifest on my inner thighs and knees.

The invitation was intended just for some hours as he was coming to town with a mixture of friends and colleagues, for a long - and predictably big - weekend, of which I was to be a highlight.

He called earlier in the week to double-check the arrangements.

“I’ll be flying in on Thursday. And I’m coming to your house, right? You sure that’s ok?” He had even made that line sound persuasively unsure and hesitant – bless his conniving little heart – such that any retraction on my part would put him in the category of Wronged Plaintiff and me in the category of Evil Indian Giver.

“Of course it’s ok!” I said a tad shrilly, knowing that I had now officially committed myself to delivering on my impetuous promise.

My mind was racing. Is the loo sparkling clean? Did I have enough sheets, enough towels? Did I do my laundry last week – if so, where was it? Should I tell the maid to come in on Wednesday instead of Friday? Was the stuff on my shelves up to snuff – did it accurately reflect my (ahem) oh-so well-rounded but eclectic tastes in literature and music? And most importantly, is there enough stuff in the refrigerator just in case he wants to eat? Shit.

To those of you that think I was being a typical woman and making an awful fuss about nothing, I would probably have to agree.

It’s not that I have never had other people over in my house. No, I’ve had both visiting friends and family stay with us with nary a complaint. We’ve even had dinner parties where my friends were more than happy to sit around a coffee table placed in the middle of the floor - listening to Pink Floyd, eating pasta, drinking wine and doing all sorts of things.

So what then is the problem? I’ve never had a man, any man, and definitely not the man who gets me more hot and bothered than all others, at my place. I mean I don’t usually let most men stick around long enough, anyway. And if they do, what is wrong with their place – so I can come and go as I please – or failing that a hotel room? Anyway, “back to mine” has never been an option really given the consideration I live with my parents.

But having peeped in quite a few people’s cupboards in my time myself, I know that observing a person's habitat often reveals more about their character, priorities in life and predilections in the sack without one having to explicitly ask.

If you must know, I once dumped a man who arranged his CDs in alphabetical order because predictably, he was only any good as a missionary-style fuck. Another had vats of protein and creatine supplements lined up in his kitchen instead of normal olive oil, pepper, salt and garlic. He turned out not to have a single hair on his body (and I’m talking chin, hands, pubes, armpits, toes – nothing!) and loved to fuck in the mirror.

So what sort of real estate gets me wet? I like residences with big hot tubs on the roof, well-stocked kitchens, huge libraries, coffee table books, cosy shagpile carpets, lived-in colonial furniture, houseplants, quirky designer chairs, cool audiophile sound systems, contemporary art (preferably drawn by you), the list goes on but you get the idea. These don’t have to be lavish postal code 10 or 11 addresses – just homey-homes that are clean, interesting, original, tasteful, full of character and well, you.

I wondered what my house said about me. But first, let me give you a little more by way of description: I do not live in a fussy apartment. In fact, since I live with my parents means my home is more sparse and unfurnished than anything else.

Second, we do not own a painfully stylish pad straight out of the pages of Vogue Living. Even if I tried changing the setting, my mother or father would seal its fate by convincing me that my holding out for a red suede bean bag is plain silly and talk me into buying an infinitely more practical sofa instead. In the rousing shades of teakwood, no less. (I still have regrets about this and will apologise for my couch’s uninspired existence given the slightest opportunity.)

Third, my house doesn’t have a back-door entry making it impossible for the guy to jump from the third-floor balcony. I don’t intend to stay here forever, but when I do eventually move, I will have moulted and shed a skin.

Every possession I have in my home has survived the initial journey to Delhi with me and I love them all like a parent loves his idiot offspring. I have my favourite CDs and yes, a whole collection of Archies. I have books that have sustained my dad’s numerous transfers from this end of the country to that, which is several cities and towns now, my most loyal friends and my salvation when I need respite from unforgiving reality.

And that? That over there is what one calls a shoe collection. Oh yes, the force of Imelda is strong in this one.

“They don’t build shoe cupboards big enough for 70 pairs of shoes”, I pertly informed him, as he regarded a diamante-encrusted pair curiously. He had just breached the maidenhead of my apartment and was now looming threateningly like a conquering crusader exploring the 1700 square-foot spoils of territory.

“What do you eat, girl?” He had poked his head into my fridge but gave me no chance to retort or reply because he had already moved onto a different part of the room. Damn him.

“Mmmm, 60 Archies! And what do we have here… Camus…” he said, with a bemused laugh in his voice, which I immediately interpreted as mocking derision of course. It was all I could do to keep myself from unceremoniously ejecting him and suggesting that we check into the nearby hotel.

“You are too ‘man’ for this apartment,” I wailed, somewhat self-consciously. I gulped back the tension building in the back of my throat.

During his stay, we broke in different parts of my house. First of course was the bed – on which we fucked, cuddled, slept, played, filmed and chatted on. Then, the kitchen counter table – on which I perched with my legs spread-eagled next to the gas stove as he very patiently (and torturously) taught me step-by-step how to go down on a woman. The bathroom – in which we washed off sweat and semen together and where I took the first leap of faith and told him all about myself(!!!). And finally, the couch – where he laid naked on top of me until daylight, alternately kissing and stroking, whilst I read aloud in a hoarse, subdued voice what I wrote about him.

My favourite activity all weekend was to watch him lazily stretch out in bed or use my computer in my room whilse I busied myself cleaning up or getting dressed. These were Martha Stewart moments – picture-perfect pockets of comfort and normalcy – rare in a relationship like ours. And thus, all the more treasured.

Then, as quickly as he came, he was gone.

But my house has traitorously and indelibly retained the feel of him. I smell his sweat on my towels, and the trace of Issey aftershave lingers hauntingly in my spare room. He is on the empty wine glass, and most CSI-certifiably on my sheets. And I miss the unmistakable ivy-creep of masculine garments from his bag to the counter stool to the clothes rack.

Presently, I stand back, objectively surveying the damage. My house suddenly feels cavernous. An old shell that was temporarily colonised and now abandoned, threatens to crumble to dust. Thanks, but no thanks.

Today I will let it grieve. I will sleep on the outer side of the bed – and imagine the full-length of him outstretched besides me in a diagonal imbibing the sounds on the streets into our collective subconscious. I will keep his wine glass by my bed – and think about our last night together and the peculiar visitor who came to make it special. I will envy the little key-chain that somehow managed to accidentally fall into his luggage and now travels with him.

And then tomorrow - I will clean and do the laundry.