In a way, she liked him to be fictional. Unreal, touchable-y untouchable - the way he was. He was intangible, and she wouldn’t ever be able to smell the scent - or “smell” - of his naked body, never be able to bask in his shining skin, touch the brown autumn-leaf on his black back that made the monsoons come on time. She would never be able to be purified by this God of Small Things, God of Loss. And yet, in this intangibility, untouchablity, was how she could celebrate his arrival in her life, how she could worship him. Through these pages and words, he remained flawless and so, more than anything, she feared the idea of him being real. For being a Human on Earth would inevitably put flaws in his body, put a shadow of doubt over the scars and make ugly stories out of them and….Gods don’t have flaws, right? She celebrated the thought of him being a mere matter of fiction, like one of the numerous atoms in the atmosphere, one of the numerous stories from holy scriptures. It made him miniscule - invisible even - in the eyes of others, and made his presence belong wholly to her, and only for her. She was enamored with the idea of his lovemaking, drunk on his voice she never heard, already devoted to a God whose stories were not preached in Bibles and Qurans, but in a mere novel. Ink to paper, children to elders, touchables to untouchables.