Cosmo amidst the setting sun

And there she sat at the McCormick and Schupmick's place, sipping her cosmo amidst the setting sun of the Baltimore harbor.

As she thought about the approaching season of thanksgiving, she thought about the people, happenings, events, places and chance meetings that she wanted to be thankful for. But the list started seeming awfully long. And while it made her more grateful, it also intimidated her. And then it dawned on her as she witnessed the sun being eaten by the waters that with each passing day, and with each setting sun, there came a promise full of thanksgiving that the day had been done and a new day will come soon enough. And somehow that simple thought made her happy and blissful again!

So there as she sat at the McCormick and Schupmick's place, she started back on her cosmo; took in the changing skies; laughed a little at her surroundings for she knew that they won't remain the same tomorrow; took the last morsel of her peanut butter sandwich; reapplied her makeup for even though the day was done, the tasks at hand were not; and as she pulled her coat over her shoulders, she thanked whoever might listen and saved a little thanksgiving for the approaching day.

The Fire Place

She watched the fire in the fire place burn with a faint glow as she sat on the couch with a leather covered journal, a cup of coffee and a peanut butter sandwich to keep her company.

She loved watching the fire burn. She loved watching how the wood would slowly change in color to become a charcoal and then ash. Ash that is at once suffocating and at once healing. She marveled at the soft music of moisture being taken away by the heat of the fire from the logs. She wondered what the moisture would feel like. Did it hurt or did the moisture take pleasure in that burning; very much like the lover taking pleasure in pain.

She loved the smell of burning wood that would engulf the home; the smell that would begin at one end of the log and proceed to the other. This smell was natural, it gave her the assurance that earth was nearby. Earth where she felt safe, earth to whom she returned after each flight, earth to where she would always belong.

As she sat by the fireplace, soaked her cold hands in the heat of the flames, she found herself playing with the smoke that arose from the place. She wished that she could create imprints from smoke on the pages of her journal. But she could only create imprints in her memory. So she did that. She waited to see if the imprints could create a ripple of imprints just like ink did on subsequent sheets of paper.

But she was too involved in watching the fire in the fire place burn with the faint glow..

Two cups of coffee

      She adjusted the two cups of coffee she held on the table, their handles facing away from one another in a nonchalant manner, with a spoon in one of the cups to stir the spoonful of sugar in each cup. 

      As she settled in her usual spot in her usual eating place, her vision wandered toward the lanes beyond the windows; toward the people walking by; toward the faint musings of Christmas music; toward the laughter of friends; toward the feet play of couples; toward the clatter of plates and forks; toward life and toward life's little and not-so-little happenings... 

      It was the end of November then, which was the start of her favorite season, the start of winter, the start of the holiday spirit, the start of family and friends gatherings, the start of finishing the year, the start of looking forward to the new year, the start of end to begin the beginning.. 

      As she tucked her ochre colored scarf unconsciously, she sipped through one cup of her coffee. Winter was almost here, she was almost done. She picked up a strand of hair from her forehead and pushed it behind. She smiled at the thought of her tickets that awaited for her new adventure for the break. She sipped in more coffee with that smile. And then she sighed. 

      Her thoughts wandered back to where it was, sometimes noticing the details what it saw, sometimes not. She lifted the spoon from her first cup to stir sugar in the second cup. Coffee was a little cold. But it didn't matter. She had enough caffeine to get her through the day and the days beyond, until she took her flight! 

      As she began to leave, she adjusted the two cups of coffee as they were when she first arranged them.  

The Routine

“You may call me Mrs. Darcy only when you are completely and truly and incandescently happy.”
"Mrs. Darcy" he sighed  
(Pride and Prejudice, the movie)

---

And she wondered if such an emotion really did exist, that someone, rather she could be completely and truly and incandescently happy and in love.

---

It was a long day and she came back home after midnight. After her routine for the night and she sat cross-legged at her kitchen table, she called her father while eating a peanut-butter sandwich. They talked about the morning and the day, they talked about work and work-outs, they talked about girls and boys, they talked about cloths and world events, they talked about home and college, they laughed, they scolded, they giggled, they sighed, they advised, they listened. At the end of the conversation and way into the night, her father asked, “So is my little princess, completely and truly and incandescently happy?”

She paused for a moment and ran through a recap of her day, her short life. It dawned to her that this time when she came home exhausted and took a shower to ward off the day’s dust that for the first time she liked how rugged she looked, how she smelled, how unkempt her hair was, how the kohl in her eyes was smudged a little, how her lip-color was almost gone. She liked how liberating it felt to be this girl to come home with. And then she wondered if she was in love with her individuality, with her being, with her surroundings, with the people that were a part of her life, with her work, with her dreams, with the things that got her breathing and with the things that took her breath away. She loved that she was finally living and was in a state of no-numbness.

She thought of all these and replied in composure to her father, “Yes papa, your little princess is finally completely and truly and incandescently happy.”

---

A lunch conversation

It started with a lunch conversation.

“Hey, I am a summer intern here. Are you here for training along with everyone also?”

“Yeah. So have you been here all summer?”

“Yeah. So where are you from? What are you studying?”

And so the lunch conversation progressed. Over the climbing steps, phone numbers were exchanged with almost a sudden anticipation of what would follow through the day.

But nothing followed.

Then at night, a few texts were exchanged and still nothing happened.

The next day, another lunch conversation progressed. Over the climbing steps, room numbers were exchanged with almost a sudden anticipation of what would follow through the day and beyond.

But nothing followed, until late evening.

“Hey, so I was wondering if you were free and wanted to come hang out here or something.”

“Sure. Give me a few minutes. I am about to finish my work for the day. I will be there with you in a bit.”

At his door, they hugged and sat close to each other on his bed. They talked, had a couple of welcome shots and discussed interests.

But nothing followed.

He initiated an Ask a Question game and they both got rolling.

“Are you attracted to me?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes. Would you like to do something?”

“Yes.”

“So then why are we just sitting here?”

“Because we both are playing it too conventionally!” she said in haste as she lowered her eyelids to give him a full kiss.

And then, yes many things followed.

Talks of dreams and aspirations, stories fantasies and truth, tales of love and bitter lies and offcourse, a few kisses.

Next day, they shared a continued lunch conversation.

The fifth meeting

“Mam, are you in there? They are waiting for you outside.” “Yes, I am in here. Just give me a couple of more minutes. Be there in a second!” she replied loudly through the shut doors of restroom at a conference centre.

This was her fifth meeting for the day and she was in the restroom to splash some cold water on her face to ward off the day’s tiredness. She applied a little mineral powder for her face, some mauve blush for her cheek bones, a little kohl for her eyes, and a smoothening lip balm for the suppleness of her lips. She adjusted her dress, gave her hair a touch and she was ready.

She gave herself one last critical look in the full length mirror and walked out of that restroom. Her face glowed as if she had been waiting for this meeting since a forever. Not a trace of tiredness, not a hint of caffeine which sustained her on these long days.

After the day was finally done and she came home after midnight; she took off her shoes, gave her toes a little wriggle, tied up her hair, took a long hot water shower, changed in her pjs, made herself a peanut-butter sandwich and put on the playlist that she played every night. Across from her kitchen table, where she sat cross-legged and ate her peanut-butter sandwich like a kid, hung a tapestry which gave her energy every night and every morning to keep going on. They were the words she believed in all her life –

You deserve better things in life, when you are worth deserving them.

And so she lived every meeting and every day, as if they were worthy of her and she was worthy of them. And a little make-up now and then, always helped her. 

The wooden bench

She felt her fingers rubbing against the rough surface as she tried to hold the wooden bench tightly almost expecting the wooden bench to hold her fingers with the same tightness. In the distance she saw a couple walking hand in hand. The hands, she thought. The interlocked fingers, she saw.  Almost as a reflex, she saw her fingers tightening against the wooden bench again. 

It was this urge to be able to hold “that” someone’s hand, which enabled her to write to “that” someone her first letter. It did not have a name. It did not have a signature. It was not written elegantly or on some nice stationary. It did not have a send-to address. It did not even have a return-to address. It only had her fragrance as she breathed on it while writing it. It only had her touch as her hand brushed against the paper. It only had her imprint as she kissed it sealed. 

It simply read:

To my dearest,

I don’t know your name yet and I don’t know when will we meet. But I do know that somewhere even you are tightening your fingers on a wooden bench, in a hope that we hold each other’s hands soon. 

I miss you more than you may know,

I love you.