The Coffee Break
It was a rainy evening, yet CCD was crowded. And, he was late. Again.
From the empty tables and occupied chairs, she could guess that most of the crowd was there to seek a stylish refuge from the rains than fill themselves up with Black Forest Gateaux and Cappucino.
Seated near the glass window, in a pretty white dress that she’d taken much pain to shield from the flying wet brown spots, she checked her watch and sighed as one more call to his phone went unanswered.
Coldplay could still be heard amidst the noisy chatter, as the vehicles clogging the roads outside made their way along in silence. Every now and then, the door opened with the ringing of the tiny bell, and the honks filled the room for the few seconds before the door closed again.
After a substantial amount of time had passed, the waiters passed by a little too often, looking at her, then at the empty table. The plastic chairs outside were filling up, and a noisy group of boys has just been asked, unceremoniously, to leave.
The two girls on the next table get up to leave, and an old man whose been waiting for a seat for a while now, ran to stake claim. His wife soon joins him. On their tray are two black coffees and a single sandwich.
She looks on as they eat, sharing the sandwich between them. Smiles, their only conversation.
It’s been nearly half hour and the couple are on their way out. They have no umbrella and wait under the already crowded awning. The old lady places her head on her husband’s shoulder, and they silently watch the traffic go by.
She wonders if 50 years on, he and herself would share moments like these. .
The ringing of the bell and the accompanying blare of horns interrupt her thoughts. It’s him. Without a glance in her direction or maybe he hasn’t seen her yet, he makes his way to the counter for some coffee, maybe.
Without a first or second thought, she gets up and leaves. He does not notice.
On her way out, she passes the old couple, and smiles at them.
Tells them that it’d be a pleasure if she could drop them home in her car.
The man smiles his gentle smile, and tells her that they’d rather walk.
It’s cold, and he pulls his wife closer to him.
It’s best to leave them alone, she thinks, as she makes her way to her car.
Fifteen minute’s later she is at a traffic signal. Her phone rings, it’s him.
The signal turns green.
She drives on, leaving the phone unanswered . . . .
Goodbye, Baby
As I turn it upside down to rid it of odds and oddities; shards of glass, pencil shavings, a long lost earring, erasers , pen refills and small change pop out in cacophony.Then I open another compartment, a small one on the inside of the first compartment, and out come a rain of little bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been.
Indecipherable to another, but not to me.
Try as I might to resist, my mind races backwards.Those eyes, the passion, the basement, the tears, the hugs, the hands, the warmth, that fire, that hope, changing colours and inconsistent promises.
And the ensuing abortion. Of the child I allowed to grow within me for a whole six months.
Do they ever abort six month babies?
I don’t think so.
But then again, I would not and cannot bear half a child. Half a head, half a body, half a heart, half a soul.
Half a child, who would receive only half the love it deserves.I walked the corridors of the clinic, lighter, no longer carrying the baby, who was a part of me for so long, whom I nurtured and nourished, in the hope that when it finally came out, it would be a whole, healthy being.
The corridors, which seemed like an endless white maze when I entered, are now just nine white tiles before the clinic’s door.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Then a little leap to the ground, where a white horse carriage waits to take me away.
I cannot take the leap, I’ve just been cut.
So I sit on that ninth white tile, then push myself to the ground, make a steady landing on the firm black earth and climb the carriage that awaits me.
Back to the present, I collect the bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been. . and burn them in the fireplace, wherein there are no flames, only the last few twigs, almost burnt out, and lots of smoke and ash.
Walking back to clean up the mess on the floor of my bag, a get pricked on the toe by one of the tiny glass pieces. I wince, then bend down, smile and collect the remaining trash in the plastic pan.
Just then, almost unnoticed, a tiny white bit of paper, floats onto my hand.
I turn in back and forth, but it has no print.
I toss it into my little box of memories instead of into the bin and retire to bed.
The next day, I come face to face with those eyes again. They look at me, as I walk past. . without the usual hesitant steps and the suppressed blush.
How is it, that the something that consumed all of me just a month ago, now fails to evoke even a spark of that once raging fire?
-Written 9th March 2009
