It’s early. 5:30 am. Knock-knock. There’s someone at the door, knocking softly. You don’t need an alarm, as the person at your door arrives on time, every time.
Your husband and son are deep sleepers, but not you. You wake up at the lightest noise.
Your eyes open at the sound, and you get up out of bed sleepily. Instead of going to the door, you go to the kitchen. You find what you’re looking for, and only then head to the front door.
“Good morning, madam,” is his greeting.
Standing at the door, with a wide grin on his face, smelling like hay, with a milk container in his hand, is a tall man, about 6 or 6’1” - broad shoulders, thick, powerful arms and legs. His skin is copper, with a thin sheen of sweat covering him - he must have had a very early start to his day.
“I didn’t ring the bell,” he says, unnecessarily, stating the obvious. You had told him off many times for ringing the bell so early to wake the dead. He finally remembered.
He’s wearing his usual white banyan, and blue checkered lungi folded up to the middle of his thigh- you can see his bear powerful legs
You see his cycle at the gate and the sky lightening slightly, behind him.
He asks, “Sir is not here, ah,” indicating the missing car usually parked in the drive.
He pours you your usual 1 litre of milk, but his eyes never leave yours while he does so.
You’re wearing your usual night clothes, a comfortable form hugging pyjama top, light blue and matching pyjama bottoms.
You see his brown eyes drop down, from your eyes to your neck, collarbone… his eyes linger on your chest, and the down your curves and back up, slowly to your eyes.
He’s always boldly looked.
He stretches out his hand for his payment.
As you place the money in his hand, you feel how rough and calloused his palm is.
He rummages around with his waistline, his hand inside his lungi, and fetches your change.
As he places your money in your hand, you feel his fingers deliberately brush your palm, and linger before he draws his hand away.
He’s always been bold.