Mann_goswami

In a dusty bookstore, Mann, a reclusive poet with a penchant for broken things, encounters a woman he dubs "Cassette"-a muse whose hum pierces his silence and ignites an all-consuming love. As their romance deepens, fueled by shared literature, slow dances, and raw intimacy, Mann's devotion warps into obsession. Viewing her as a perfect cassette tape, he sees any interference -be it a crude law student, a suspicious friend, or a prying landlord-as "noise" or "scratches" marring her melody. One by one, he eliminates these threats with gruesome precision: a throat slit, a body drowned, a car compacted, a fire set, each kill a vow to keep her pure.

Cassette, unaware at first, is drawn

into his orbit, her own scars and trust

binding her to him. But when her friend

group stages an intervention, Mann's

violence peaks, and he tests her loyalty,

coaxing her to kill. She does, sealing

their dark duet-only for Mann to decide

her perfection can't endure life's decay.

Poisoning her tea with arsenic, he stops

her "tape," preserving her in a grotesque

ritual of lavender and glass eyes, their

love eternalized in stillness. As he

mourns her at a table set for two, his

gaze drifts to a new hum, hinting at a

cycle poised to rewind.

No one else can hear you

The kitchen light hazes amber──steam curling from the oven where Mann intended to roast lavender-salted lamb, Cassette's favorite. The smell was heavy, a taste of earthy wilderness and floralsー just a whisper of what she was. Her bare feet lay perched on the counter, wading past his knees, almost meeting toes as he mixed in the gravyーhis apron heavy with her laughter, while she had virtually thrown flour onto him. "You're ridiculous," she had tartly said, playful, which she could very well relent any minute from falling forward into his inner world as he caught her wrist with his left hand on her right wrist. As he sipped her skin, Man tasted salt and Cassette. "Only for you, Cassette," his muffled voice replied; the sound of his lips lingered till she sucks some air, causing a slight moan.

Beneath that old woolen rug, they ate about the floor, Cassette's plate in her lap, her knees drawn of their own volition to her chest as she dug into the meat with her fingers and grease shined on her lips. The gulping of food was mesmerizing as he watched perhaps more than he should've, then marveled at the way her throat would move to swallow, the thumb she licked clean. "You're staring," she teased, and he only smiled. He scooted forward to swipe the little bit of meat juice from her chin then put his finger to his lips, sucking it clean, his voice husky and intense, "I'd eat the moon." Her playful eyes turned sultry; he felt her crawl on his lap, straddling him, sensation seeping into his bones.

Hisvenyl crackled with some old jazz song, as they twirled away barefoot, her head on his chest, his hands dipping under her shirt to feel the ladder of her backbones. Laced with the reek of lavender and sweat, her wild and loose head brushed his jawline, spinning her before her impish laughter spilled into the air and he took her back to himself. "You are my rhythm, Cassette, the beat that makes one's life meaningful." She clutched the buttons of his shirt-tugging down hard to get him underneath her, and their mouths touched, slow at first, only childish caresses, then desperate moans and gnashing teeth talking dirt

THE HOUR OF SIGHT