She was wearing Rhapsody, something she’d perfumed herself with only once before – precisely, on the day she had teased it from a present with a polka dotted wrapper. It was too precious to be consumed. Besides, she wanted it to last all her life. In her blue velvet dress, a string of gold carrying a small diamond round her neck, her pony tail – on quite a high spring – curving round her neck to stroke her left shoulder like an eternal friendly arm, she peeped into the mirror. What she saw was more than her own reflection. Everything seemed a mirror-image, a reprise of an evening a month ago. Well, almost.
That evening she was in frenzy. She had someplace to be. More importantly, she had someone to meet.
At 7 PM she bundled into the Dealectable, a budget restaurant that had a reputation for fine food. At one of the corner tables, probably a result of seeking a table for two, he sat. His glass of water almost empty, he was scanning the menu, as if trying to pick from among the dishes that he’d shortlisted.
On seeing her, he stood up abruptly and mumbled a greeting. His attire – a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans – did not, unlike hers, reveal an eagerness for the occasion. The screech as he pulled her chair out for her, though, hinted at his being nervous as well.
It was as if they had attended schools where remaining silent as one ate was an essential. The only small talk happened while they were waiting for the food to be served, and they had chosen the safest topics. There wasn’t an extended back and forth even when they had to decide on the next item to be ordered.
After the ice creams, the bill was on the table.
As he fumbled in his pocket, she reached for the bill. Then, suddenly, she was spluttering a sorry. Her right hand was in his left. The sorry, though, wasn’t accompanied by a flinch. His grip was tender and sure. He calmly slid a ring up her gold-finger with his right hand. He then let her hand go and began taking notes out of his wallet to pay the bill, looking up in between to share a smile with her.
At the restaurant gates,
“Can we come here again on the red letter day a month from now?” she asked.
“Sure!” he said, offering her a package. She faked an askance glance as she bagged it.
They shared a briefly longer smile, wished each other a goodnight, and shook hands – with her having initiated the gesture.
Then, he chuffed away on his bike, even as she wondered if he had actually walked away in a huff. She hailed an auto rickshaw, found herself barking the destination at the driver – the stridence born of a spectral exasperation – and was on her way.
Today was the red letter day.
At 7 PM, she was there. He was at the same table and appeared jitterier as he tapped away on his Smartphone, a scowl seemingly masking his face. As she walked, she heard her phone buzz – a stilted SMS from him conveyed his displeasure. She marched on purposefully. The enthusiasm responsible for that elegant gait a month ago had been excised.
He nodded and pulled her chair out, conscious not to impinge on the ambient music.
They dined, and soon the bill was brought to them.
He put his left hand out, in which she placed her right hand. His grasp was less certain, nevertheless tender. He just held her hand, stilled. As if sensing a dilemma, she, with a graceful sweep of her left hand, removed the ring, withdrew her right, and placed the ring in his palm. It wasn’t a sleight of hand, but the ring quickly escaped their sight.
At the restaurant gates, she waited for an auto rickshaw, before he stopped his bike by the curb. She hopped on. They rode away on his bike, jabbering above the thumping engine.
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