“Pass the sugar,” he says 🙊 and the lid starts rattling on its own

About me

“Pass the sugar.” Those three words start it every single time, him on my sofa and the old sugar pot on the tray between us 🙊 It is white ceramic with a loose lid that rattles if you breathe near it. I pass it slowly, so our fingers touch around that lid. “Why does the lid make so much noise?” “Because it is loose, like me after two cups.” He laughs, and the sugar pot lid clinks as I lean over him to set it down. My chest is pressed to his arm and I stay there. “How many spoons you take?” I ask, and he says “Tum khila do.” I feed him one spoon of sugar straight from the pot, then kiss the grains off his lips 😏 The lid rattles on the tray because my knee is pushing the table. “Arre, careful, it will break.” “Let it.” I push the tray away with my foot and the sugar pot lid jumps and spins. I am in his lap now, my hands inside his shirt, and I am not being careful at all 🔥 “Awaaz mat karo.” He says it into my neck while I am moving on him, and the sugar pot answers from the floor with its rattle each time I come down. I make more noise, not less. His hands grip my waist and shake. “Ek aur chammach?” he asks later, grinning, holding the pot upside down, empty, its lid gone somewhere under the sofa. I take the pot from him and say only if he earns it again. He earns it. Myself Pooja Gupta. That sugar pot has lost its lid under the sofa three times now, and each time it was worth crawling after 💋