Being an ice cream junkie, watching dweeby Christmas reruns of Notting Hill and Runaway Bride *they don’t even feature Christmas in it! #justsaying*; and reading a girl-in-twenties’ fair share of MnB’s, I can tell for sure her idea of romance was pretty skewed. Enough at least to blur the line relationships drew between faking serious, pretty serious and seriously serious. The ‘really’ kind. Assuming you’re catching on to my lingo. If at all!
Yes, so that being her, or ‘her type’ rather, it’s no wonder at all she found herself never too haggled for mood swings or confusion.
Falling out of love needed to be done right. You cry, you sulk, you sleep. You wake up with a bright smile and before you know it, he’s flushed down and out. The End.
Banking on its success rate and works-for-all-sizes nature, that was Plan-A. No, there was no Plan-B.
The phone buzzed on vibrate and she made an easy swerve to catch enlightening midnight girly gossip that never failed to disappoint.
Instead there was a short crisp message that flashed, ‘At your doorstep.’
It wasn’t entirely odd that she hadn’t forgotten the sender’s number or the about average face behind it. Alarming though was why an old flame sent her fluttering in a near frenzy to rush to the door, almost tumbling down the staircase and dangerously tearing to keep her composure and breathing balanced.
If a perfect date meant black halter dress girl meets black tuxedo guy who greets her with orchids, this was night-suit clad girl in bunny slippers and hair at the top of her head meets tee n tracks guy greetings et al with milkshake. Not elegant, not sober but taken O.k.!
He was not the kind of visitor she had been expecting this late in the night. Yet somewhere in the corner of her brain, probably the part where little most personal thoughts stay nestled to be grazed in moments of loneliness, this moment had been played on loop already.
Keeping him at the door fumbling for words hardly seemed like the right thing to do. With her house teeming with family that was lost to snores and sweet dreams, the only place left to go without calling any attention was the terrace, and go they did.
It was a dangerous place to be. No, not the terrace, the company I mean. The sad part was, almost in a time set to long ago it had been settled that there was nothing left to say between them; nothing of consequence at least. Things just weren’t going to work and holes that couldn’t be darned were best left un-tattered.
And so they simply talked into the night.
Pretended the milkshake made them tipsy. Talked of mundane things.
Of straws and bubbles. And threw guesses at names of aircrafts that flew over their heads, fought even. Of queer waiters from times gone by. Of dialogues from unheard gory movies. Of keys left in refrigerators. Of childish fears. Of teachers who beat them blue. Of dream tree houses. Of how sleepy ruffled hair looked better. Of why the night breeze made awkward people beautiful.
Of how all things good blend into each other and never have an end.
Never have an end.
Somewhere in between, the pretence became real and blurred everything over. Strained smiles inverted and laughter flowed. Uncertain eyes sparkled and danced. Remember I said the ‘really’ kind and you weren’t so sure you got me? Yes, that.
Maybe they didn’t need to have an end after all. Maybe every time they neared the end, they could make a new beginning. Like the two shredded halves of a crescent moon that eventually come together.......Cos that’s where they belong. Never too surprising, is it?
The long and short of it you think. Well there always must be a story to tell on another day.J