He smelled of India, dosa and the lingering smell of the markets, fresh dates and ripe figs.
Sweat coated his brow; his skin was tanned and dark from the blazing India sun.
"Miss Doyle, good evening."
His bow was low, so low that I think his nose was touching the dirt floor.
It felt like he was mocking me, or was he yearning for my forgiveness? He has been gone for so many months.
"I'd rather you not kiss the ground I walk on, I might blush."
My words came out fast and witty, honey for my lips.
Too many times have I lost tongue and rambled on and on, Kartik always seemed to the one I'm around when it happens.
"I might ask the same."
He gave me a wicked grin, playing along with my childish game.
"Oh, but my lips are nowhere the ground."
Smiles came easily and made me feel well. The troubles of the day slipped away with the setting sun.
"You're kissing the air I breathe, Miss Doyle."
I made the show of trying to catch the air in my hands, and give it a kiss. He did the same, grabbing a handful of the dirt near my newly polished boots, letting it slip threw his fingers, kissing it.
"Poor boy, at lest I didn't have to kiss any thing real."
"Oh?"
I froze as the lips I've dreamed of fell on my own.
"I've missed you, Miss Doyle."
The light spilled in, shattering the dream that came every night, dreams of a face that slipped away too soon.
The heavy sadness that weighted down on my sleeping form floated away as those words came into my ears, 'land ho!'