food for thought, Poetry, random

Lonely Bunch of Fuckers

Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
Trying to hide from our own demons in each other’s company,
Trying to find our own selves in others,
How does that even work?
How does it even end?
Our eternal search for eternal connection – something or someone who could save us from destroying ourselves.
Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
Settling for company we don’t even like,
Listening to things that we sort of despise,
But better that than listening to our babbling brain –
The person will eventually shut up, the brain won’t.
Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
We flee with numb solitude when we actually need companionship the most.
Such lonely misguided souls!
Wanting to lead, wanting to be led,
Searching for truth, searching for love,
And at the same time shit scared of both.

Aren’t we both such lonely pair of fuckers?
Cheers to yet another glass of whiskey!
Hope it melts the frozen insides,
And the frozen tongue,
So that the vocal words flow better than the thoughts.
There’s no need for love tonight, for love is scary and too fantastical to be true,
So let’s wait until the line between lust and love vanishes out of the blue.
I might agree to meet you next time,
and the next time next to that,
I might agree to see you, talk to you, laugh with you,
And hate you even more than I possibly can,
But that doesn’t matter as long as you drive my emptiness away,

Until it returns again.

*

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humour, philosophy

The Two Parallel Lines

“Hello ladies, my name is Charles and I will be your waiter tonight,”he says in his slightly accented posh English.

We like Charles already. After all, being addressed as a lady is a rare thing. We try to return his “Hello” with equal charm. Can’t tell if we succeeded but we don’t have time to reflect on that. Happy hours are ending soon and there is a lot of alcohol to order. So, we immediately proceed to digging our heads into the cocktail menu. Beer is something that we don’t even mention once in our discussion. That is going to be ordered by default. In the midst of our deliberation over the choice of cocktails, I look at two of my closest friends and wonder how mystical and surreal being here with them actually is. But that doesn’t last long. “Six pints of beer, for now. We will order the cocktails soon,” I tell our charming waiter.

I am transported back to the time when we three were discussing oral sex for the first time. “What do you mean you put it in your mouth? They pee with that thing!” “I don’t know. I don’t know how people do that…” We three glanced at each other and let out a synchronous shudder. Now, sitting in a bar, sipping on our beer, it’s funny how we don’t seem to be affected by that shudder anymore. “So, all bases?” I am asked. “Well, you could say that.” I confess it with a surprising casual indifference. I am greeted back in the same way. “Uh! Cool.” Where has our shock been assimilated? How could there not be a trace of it? Perhaps I can find the abundance of it in the faces of twelve year old us, sitting on the bench in the classroom a decade ago. If they would have been sitting with us today, they would have killed me with disgust in their eyes. The pre-teenaged us wouldn’t just have stopped with the look. Next thing they would have done was to throw away our bottles, “What is this that you are drinking! Alcohol? We swore we would never do that!” We are perfectly fine with drinking now. In fact there’s a part of us, who can’t live without it. But we (at least I did) indeed swore that we would never consume this wretched liquid. Same thing went with cigarettes. Same thing went with broccoli. Same thing went with green tea. We have grown into liking both the health saviors and health destroyers at the same time. Well, the equation must be balanced, right?

“Forgot to ask, how was it though?” one of my friends asks. “Ah, what sex? Comme ci comme ca. Okay, I guess?” I reply. And like that we go back to our drinks. We are perfectly fine with boys asking us out. Back in school, that was a big deal. I suddenly get the flashbacks of some of our conversations from school – “What do you mean, you are chatting on messenger?” “Well, we have been doing that for past two weeks. Every day.” “What do you mean every day?” “Well, every day.” “Do you have a crush on him?” “No” my friend said blushing. “Is that a yes?” “No” My friend said nodding affirmatively. Wow, back then it used to be huge. “What happened to the guy you met on Tinder?” I ask her. “Meh” she replies. “Still talking even?” I ask further. “Yes” she says. “Then?” I ask. “Meh.”

By now we all are sipping on the last few drops of beer left in the bottle. Our eyes are droopy and our voices heavy and our conversations solely in English. “I am not drunk okay” my friend says. “I am never drunk okay,”the other friend replies. Yeah of course. English though – Ah! It gave me such a hard time in school. All those people with their fancy education in private high class schools spoke such fluent English. I envied them deeply. It was devastating because it took a toll on my public speaking skills. I was so scared of English. That insecurity is lost now. There are greater things to worry about.

It’s surreal in a way that we three are still this close. There were so many other people back in school with whom I had felt I had a ‘deep connection’. They are nothing but a name in my Facebook friend list now. How weird is this. I think you don’t choose friends but life chooses them for you. There are people who connect with you and to each one of those people there stand thousand others who don’t. It’s a bit tricky to find those people who know you like their favorite book. You might find a connection in some moments with a particular person but you have little control over its expiry date. People enter in your life as intersecting straight lines. They come, converge, intersect and diverge. On the other hand, there are people who never intersect but they run parallel with you for the rest of your life.

“Three Classic Martinis, please.” We have finally decided on the cocktails. Charles nods and throws a brief glance at the empty beer bottles at our table as if wondering whether we should be drinking more. Fifteen minutes later, he would be serving us another round of Martinis. The beer has already got our heads buzzed. We are laughing over stupid jokes. We are endlessly taking selfies. We are wondering how painfully overpriced the french fries are. Soon, we will head to the dance floor and dance for three hours straight with basically everyone present in the club. We are going to discuss this night for weeks, maybe years. We are going to be amazed how amazing it was. But for now, I just look at these two people and cringe at my cheesiness but it’s true – they do mean the world to me. These two fuckers are my parallel lines.

*

humour, Things that I don't understand

Things that I don’t understand – IV

      1. Fluid mechanics. Office politics. And heart
      2. Black holes. Black-heads. What existed before big bang. And heart.
      3. X-men movie timeline, Donnie Darko and why I suck at receiving compliments.
      4. Complex philosophical theories. The Tree of Life movie. And my procrastinating habits.

I glance at my phone again. Its screen is plain black with light reflecting through its cracked edges and it is idiotly smiling back at me as if it doesn’t understand my irritation at all. Why aren’t you blinking with a notification? A telephone under a chat circle or an f under a square? Why aren’t you quenching my curiosity? But I thought you wanted me to be silent and not disturb you. And now when I am doing exactly that, you have a problem? Again?

I and my smartphone are in an abusive relationship. My palms have huge holes and they are pretty fond of providing free fall experiences to my phone.

Even with its bruised and malfunctioning screen, my wounded and weak phone can still torture me effortlessly. In fact more now.

If you hate me so much, why don’t you get rid of me? I don’t mind being sold. You can go back to using landlines. I know you terribly miss them.

I don’t know how my phone learnt sarcasm but certainly it’s more fluent in it than I can ever be. “I should do that. I should sell you.” I retort.

I am proud of your decision. I am sure you won’t find it hard to let go of all the applications you are fond of using.

All the applications? Facebook? Twitter? Maps? Gmails? Uber? Chrome? Camera?

Yes, you can ‘clearly’ live easily without them of course.

Whatever. What matters right now is not this stupid argument but the question,”Why aren’t you blinking yet?”

Blinking with what. You need to be specific. You meant the drop-but-actually-a- fire thing?

Shut up. I wasn’t asking for that notification.

No? So I suppose you are asking for notifications of the news app you never bother to use?

Okay, the telephone under the circle thing. Now you know, go blink.

No. I won’t.

Exasperated I return to my book. Sure, actually it’s good I am away from all those distractions. I can concentrate. Two lines into the paragraph, some idiot in my head speaks,”But why hasn’t he messaged you yet? Is he ignoring you?”

“Does it matter?” I ask back.

Silence again. Fifth line into the paragraph, the idiot speaks again, “But why hasn’t he messaged you yet? Are you not interesting enough?”

“Does it matter?”

The question works again. I tell my brain, rather I request my brain for his kind attention on the words that I am trying to read. It obeys. For three minutes. Then I go on a date, with the same guy who did text me back in this dreamworld. He had apologized. He said he was too busy with work. But he also said he would make up for it by a dinner in a good Sushi restaurant. Ah! Sushi. How did he even know I love Sushi? Now we are in this fancy restaurant, eating the most delicious Sushi ever made on the face of the Earth. And I have finally learnt how to use chopsticks. There’s a huge platter of Sushi in front of me. There are so many varieties and each one is equally delicious. But if you ask which one’s my favorite–

My phone blinks with the telephone thing for real. I snap out of my date-but-increasingly-transforming-into-food daydreams. Has he finally texted? You are blinking, my love. You are finally blinking.

Hold your horses, young lady. How can you be so sure that I am blinking with his text.

Ah no. Don’t say it. Don’t imply it. Don’t jinx it. No. It has already been jinxed, hasn’t it? Yeah, it’s not from him. It’s a message on the school group – another useless GIF.

You do know I can’t make him text, right? Stop being stupid.

You are stupider.

Oh really? Let’s check your search history on Google, shall we?

How does my own phone gets to speak with me like that? You are supposed to be my servant.

And you are supposed to be worthy of being served to. I will tell you – Here’s what is going to happen now. You are going to continue gawking at me for like 12 straight hours. Then you shall finally give up only till you send him a drunk text like an hour later. He is going to reply with a conversation-ender. Suddenly, your ego that you had carelessly sold in your drunkenness will come running back to you. Horrified, you won’t reply. You will archive/delete the chat and resolve you are never going to text him again. That resolution will end in exactly two hours and twenty seven minutes. Then you are going to start obsessing again. Be better than this obsession cycle, your highness. Be better.

Okay duck him. Let’s scroll through our Facebook Newsfeed again.

You did that like 27.25 seconds ago but I am happy to comply.

I need to read but a quick glance through twitter?

Of course.

Facebook again?

Of course.

WordPress?

Of course.

Twitter…?

Of course.

Two hours later, I finally decide to turn off my phone and return to my book. The words don’t make sense initially but I continue to read anyway. Somewhere, along some paragraphs, I finally immerse in the text. The black screen of my phone still keeps radiating temptation in the background. My smartphone pretends it is not doing that on purpose. Evil bastard, I resolve not to fall into his trap again. Twenty two minutes later, I am watching some random shit on YouTube. How and why exactly is what I don’t understand.

*

food for thought, Poetry

Infinity Loop

The other side of the dream
lies another dream
lies another clean slate
that you need to start scribbling on –
Infinity loop
According to my disoriented head
And according to my head high with hope
I am just in a bad mood.

The other side of dream
lies new sets of insecurities,
More shit to deal with.
What did you think, you’d get away so easily?
What the hell is wrong with you?
I think even happiness hurts sometimes
When I laugh
often my heart yearns for the solace in sorrow.
Crazy, isn’t it?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Most of us don’t even know how to live!
Why do they not train you before throwing you out to Earth?
Here, we are trying to decipher the meaning of life
through random Instagram posts
deemed inspirational according to current popular culture.
Perfect.
Hence, the training,
Hence, my point.

Anyway, the other side of dream
lies a new list of confusions
But wait
Why is this moron complaining again?
Can’t she just revere what she has?
Who’s complaining?
I am not complaining!
I am just trying to get rid of some pathetic filters of my mood
I hate it when I am poetic like this
I hate it
I hate poems
Though those are mostly what I write
I hate the honesty it drips with
And I hate how people simply don’t get it
Not their fault though
Poetry is pathetic.
Here, I admit it.

The other side of the dream
lies the new kind of rage
and ungratefulness,
New sets of blows to conscience
New sets of excuses
New kinds of cruel addictions
You thought you could get away so easily?
Sit back
Relax
And get another cup of coffee;
The door just leads into another room
for you to find another door
to yet another room.
I guess the key is to not lose patience
(At least, that’s what the tweet said)
What do you even want from your life?
Maybe food?
Or a quick nap?
Long naps, actually,
Very long indeed
But then you cross a threshold
And you enter into a series of nightmares
Not your position of particular liking,
But you are too lazy to wake up
And your brain is too desperate for you to do the very same.
So ultimately you give in,
Eyes open
Mind shut.
Inherent surviving skills, I figure.
I am impressed
Maybe they will come handy
when I am being too harsh on life
on myself,
like today?
Come on get me out of here,
Brain!
Brain?
Where the hell does it go when you need it the most?
Wake me up, will you?
No,
I know,
It will watch me suffer.
Let me get some popcorn for you
Loser. Fucker.
Oh, you need coke too?

But anyway,
The other side of the dream;
Welcome to the infinity loop,
To the Hotel California rules
It will be easier to ignore, easier not to perceive
That once you check in, you kind of never leave.
The hotel is humongous;
Infinite rooms, infinite doors
You are lost now
Just like you were lost before.
So does it really make a difference?
On the other hand,
I heard the room service is great
And the food ain’t that bad
And despite being in the gigantic maze of rooms,
And corridors,
And floors,
And halls,
And what not,
You can still easily find the bar.

I mean, just saying.

*

Poetry, random

Fuckboys

You are beautiful,
You are beautiful, almost,
When you forget to sync sound to your thoughts,
God I am soaking wet under your accented syllables (just the syllables?)
Sometimes they make sense,
Sometimes I forget to make sense out of them.
You are beautiful,
Really, in all your peculiarity,
The hair falling on your forehead,
The walk with your shoulders slightly converged,
Snigger, giggle, god if only you’d shut up,
I can paint your naked portrait in my head,
And maybe even worship it,
If only you’d shut up
And kiss
And touch
And what not.
Man, you could call me the one with weird choices,
Benefits of doubts, suppressed judgement and mostly I, trying to choose the right thing among infinite voices,
A mistake – I know it,
But trust me I have read the Terms & Conditions,
A mistake – I know it,
But what’s life without one?
So, hey weirdo!
I invite you to be among my favorite anecdotes,
I invite you to invite me into a situation that none of us has to care about,
Kiss me again, I know you would,
Lust wins after all,
I might just find meaning out of your babbles,
Once, twice, maybe a couple of more times,
As long as I keep experiencing paradise under your dexterous tongue,
Among other things.

*

humour, Inspiration, Narratives, philosophy, random

How’s life in England?

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone notifies me of yet another text bearing the same question I’ve heard daily since the past two months. And I am left wondering, yet again, how the hell do I answer this?

How’s life in England? Each day, I wake up with a slight hangover because somehow I have developed a habit of mistaking beer for water. The morning begins with me brewing a tasteless tea and slicing an apple, often along with my fingers. Then I connect my phone to the speakers as I eat my so-called breakfast and start preparing my lunch. Two months back, cooking was my least favorite task and now it is my top choice for procrastination. I chop vegetables while dancing to some 2000s rock. I still don’t know how I manage to pull that off. The day progresses as I finish cooking my lunch which is almost never completely consumed by me. I leave some curry for my flatmates. And by the evening, there’s no trace of it left. My utensils are cleaned and neatly placed back in my shelf. Cooking a little extra so that you don’t have to clean? I figure it’s a pretty good strategy to go by. But this is not what you want to know, do you?

How’s life in England? Well, mostly it’s the blue sky and chartreuse grass spread across remarkably vast stretches of land. Each day I discover a new breed of dog. Each day I come across those cars that I never thought I would see in three dimensions with my own eyes. Each day I meet different kinds of people. And almost each day, I write about them in a small cafe with a small blackboard placed at its gate happily flaunting the beautiful handwriting and the supposedly reasonable rates of different kinds of coffees. Hours pass by as I type random stuff on random things and before it gets too cold (and it’s not even Winter yet!) I return to my kitchen to enjoy a multi-cuisine dinner cooked by flatmates. My kitchen is not a particularly attractive one. The dining table is almost never cleaned. Sometimes, the refrigerators stink. Noone is ever able to find his/her plates or spoons or coffee cup on time. When one of us burns food accidentally, we don’t pray for our own safety. Instead we pray for the inefficiency of the smoke detector. I look at the small exhaust, the electric heat stove, the rarely used oven, the toaster that partially works and the silver platform that’s turning grey – This kitchen is as ordinary as it can be. I look at the people I am dining with. This kitchen is my favorite place. But this is not what you want to know either, is it?

How’s life in England? Whenever the sun shines outside my tiny window my heart swells with happiness and hope. And then I think of the pending work, my spinning head and my heart immediately sinks. My table is splashed with my clumsiness. I am running out of clean clothes to wear. The bedsheet of my bed is beginning to stink. The mattress has given me a permanent back ache but I love my tiny little corner. My cupboard is bare but surprisingly, I don’t hate my limited collection of clothes. I am slipping below the poverty line slowly but steadily. However, somehow I don’t hate my depleting financial state. I am not sure why I am here sometimes. To write life? To live life? Sometimes my room haunts me too – to make it more eerie, there are unexplained bruise marks on my limbs. My financial burden haunts me. My insecurity and uncertain future haunts me. My dreams haunt me. But I am here anyway, I guess, happily haunted.

Days in England – It was clear sky a second ago and it’s suddenly raining. And despite the unpredictable weather, I can safely predict that it would never rain when I do have an umbrella with me. The cloudy night sky is bit of a shame but at times when it is clear I can almost get lost among the diamonds shining above, along with the silhouettes of the trees caressing the edges of the river. And then there’s the moon. The same moon I wrote a letter to saying that I would do what I love to do and in some surreal way I am still keeping that promise. I like to picture myself looking at this satellite somewhere someday in the future and instead of the moon, I like to believe that I would be looking at my own present self. We would briefly acknowledge each other, smile and whisper, “It is going to be alright.” The moon is my imaginary time travelling machine. When I look at it now, I suddenly see myself searching for it through the clusters of buildings back in Vadodara or strolling under the moonlight through the peaceful beaches of Goa during my final undergraduate year or picturing nose or eyes on it during my kindergarten days.

How’s my life? Each day I am going older. Each day I am learning something new. Though I can’t specifically point out the change but I can still feel a certain kind of novelty running through my blood. Life in England – It’s the walks among the pretty homes in red bricks. It’s playing with the amber leaves lining the footpaths. It’s being marvelled by the sparrows with orange necks. It’s walking through the trails lining the river. It’s catching a brief experience of forest and making an escape from urban life during those walks. Living here is modern and ancient at the same time. I am simultaneously falling in love in Swedish beer and cutting masala chai found in the streets of India. I am simultaneously falling in love with butter croissant and Latte and also with freshly cooked potato paratha made by my mother back home. I am amazed by the quiet and peaceful locality but at the same time I sometimes miss the crowd and the cacophony as well.

It’s writing, so much writing, reading, scribbling, dancing, drinking and being terrified of the fact that these days are disappearing much faster than they should and also the fact that I would miss this more terribly than I can ever imagine. My life in England? Well, honestly, life seems to be chasing me instead of I chasing it for a change. At first it was overwhelmingly surreal. Now, it’s overwhelmingly busy. Like the gas compressed in a cylinder, it seems like a whole lifetime has been squeezed into a couple of months. Weeks are long but yet they fly by. And sometimes all I do is breathe and watch yet another sun explode into thousands of shades of Crimson and Magenta and all those hues that I can’t even name.

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone is still beeping with that whatsapp message.
“Good.” I text back.

Inspiration, philosophy, Poetry

I don’t miss home,

Of course I don’t miss home,
Though it’s cold out here but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I miss the warmth.
Of course I don’t miss home,
Yes, I confess that the green bed of my dorm,
The matching duvets and pillows aren’t as somniferous as the violet hues of my room,
The humongous pin board bears such a vast scope for creativity,
But I admit it seems that I have left it all behind on the walls of a small place that I am not supposed to think much about.
But still I don’t miss home,
Not when I look through my tiny window and remember how large it used to be.
I don’t miss home,
I am too happy to bear such delusions,
After all the beauty of my surroundings hasn’t even sunk in,
The notion that I might be sharing same time and same space as this place still lies dangling as a mad hypothesis,
I haven’t properly forgotten the crowds, the dust, the hot weather of the past,
I haven’t even forgotten the sweat, the noise, the boredom, the four walls confining my life,
I haven’t forgotten that the food wasn’t always this tasteless,
I haven’t forgotten that the water used to cheaper than alcohol,
I haven’t forgotten about the time I had to waste,
I haven’t forgotten the anticipation, the butterflies, the apprehensions,
Regarding what that could now be called my present,
I haven’t forgotten much,
Despite being here,
I haven’t forgotten anything at all.
Though the dates in my calendar keeps rapidly changing,
Perhaps I can sit here listening to the same downtrodden playlist,
With my pen and a few things in my head to reminisce,
I can sit here for eternity or so it seems,
I can sit here pretending that the time is frozen.
So I don’t miss home.
I don’t miss it at all.
When I wake up tomorrow,
It would still be incredibly hard to believe
That I am here
Miles away,
In a strange beautiful land,
With strange people,
Under strange circumstances.
Some call it bold,
Some call it cowardly escape,
Some call it love,
Some call it outrageous stupidity,
Some exclaim in disbelief,
Some silently mutter in jealousy,
Some say “You don’t deserve it.”
Some say, “You are worth every penny.”
Some, so many,
All these people in my head,
Who travelled overseas on free tickets with me,
An entire world,
An infuriating celestial miracle,
Obnoxious electrochemical reactions inside my brain,
These people and I,
My room, my pen, the blue blue sky,
Beautiful things, beautiful places, beautiful beautiful faces,
That I peek through my invisibility cloak,
That I look at in wonder,
That I look at with curiosity,
That I look at in boredom…
Happy places, laughing faces,
Of course,
Of course it’s too early to miss home,
Too early to miss the recent past,
Too early to miss the current present.

What is this?
I,
Caught up in a few fucked up tenses,
Trying to make some decent sentences,
Stringing along the pearls of words,
Trying to weave a good fabric through some odd phrases,
Living the life,
Denouncing it at the same time,
Awed, and indifferent,
Amazed and hurt.
How nice! How wonderful!
How enigmatic! How treacherous!
How confusing! How difficult!
A simple question;
A lost answer,
And all this adventure in between –
“What do you want, dear heart?”

***

Poetry

Human Skin

Is it just the human skin?
Or is it the character altogether?
Because each year,
In fact each day,
I find that I am growing more stupid along the way,
Each day, each minute,
I find myself to be a bit different, possibly better or so to say,
Each minute, each second,
The change in my thoughts are growing rampant,
Each second, each moment,
Despite being the same,
The very same,
I realize I couldn’t have changed more,
Like my perceptions,
Like my reflections,
Like my age,
Like my skin.

***

P.S. Wrote this honoring the fact that the human skin gets completely changed around 900 times during the average human lifespan.

philosophy, Poetry

Let her explode.

My oh my!
Look at that girl,
Look at that girl being so shy,
Reserved, antisocial, the one who doesn’t give a damn,
The cool one, the coolest one,
who doesn’t have the fear of “missing out”
Ah! Trapped inside the shell,
despite being outside it,
often, so often, so often!
How does it feel to lose your character?
One thing that you thought you are,
One thing that you thought you accepted!
But wait, oh wait!
Your acceptance escaped!
Now, your definition is running short of words,
How would you find your meaning now?
How would you find it all over again?
My oh my!
Look at that girl,
Look at that girl being not so shy,
Outspoken, carefree, mingling, friendly,
A genuine smile that doesn’t deny-
That doesn’t deny the voice within,
That doesn’t deny the things that could have been,
That doesn’t deny the moment right here,
That doesn’t deny the fact you care.
Ah! A genuine fictitious smile!
Damn. That girl.
Help her? Save her? Protect her?
But how would you see the fireworks then?
Let her explode instead.

***

Things that I don't understand

Things that I don’t understand – III

  1. Fluid mechanics. Office politics. And heart
  2. Black holes. Black-heads. What existed before big bang. And heart.
  3. X-men movie timeline, Donnie Darko and why I suck at receiving compliments.

He looked at me for a second or two. But I kid you not that time frame felt like an entire age! Of course, I couldn’t hold his gaze back. I always lost when asked to stare in that stupid game – Truth, dare & stare. Look at you, dear brain – how quickly you dug up a memory from a decade ago. And where are these excellent abilities of yours when I am searching for my keys? Anyway, I am on a date and not only have I received the whole middle school flashback during a supposedly romantic gaze, I have also noticed some minor cracks in the ceiling and patches of dampness on it sprinkled here and there. If you look at them carefully, you would realize that they look like skin disease. To be more precise, they look like Eczema. How do I know that? Because I had Eczema almost my entire childhood. Wow, I can see we are travelling back(er) in time. Are you sure it’s not even been a second? Look at the wall! It’s ruined too! Why don’t builders hire good plumbers? Wait, do good plumbers even exist? Why won’t you stop looking at me, you idiot? “Because he likes you, you idiot!”, someone in my brain replies. I quickly shrug off the thought fearing it might result in either of two completely opposite reactions, none of which are desirable right now – embarrassment or a shy blush. I glance through the limited book collection in the small book shelf nearby and quickly deduce that the owner obviously doesn’t read. Though the company of any of these books would have been better than the pair of eyes still fixated at me. Oh my god, how can time be this long? “You are not being a nice person”, some voice in my head feels entitled to express its opinion again. Well, that’s your problem brain, thought process is completely your department. Then my ears receive the stimulus of his voice. I see the girl, sitting behind him instead. In my defense, she is dressed pretty smartly and she is pretty pretty too. I know it’s rude not to listen to people when they are talking. So, I finally drag my attention, the incredibly heavy attention that weighs too much to even be touched at all, back to him. His words, I don’t remember. Random things, random people, a small poem he wrote, a girl he used to like, a place he once visited, things he read, things he did not read, movies he watched, people he loved, so many things he might have talked about but I don’t remember. It’s a shame I guess, all I do remember is his lips moving, mouthing some words which could have been in English or Croatian altogether. His upper lip half covered with the mustache and lower lips looked as if swollen from a recent kiss. “Or maybe an anticipation of a kiss?” Thanks for that input, brain. But this is a date, isn’t it? Inputs like this aren’t really that inappropriate. Date, yes. This reminds me that I need to buy some dates, it’s been ages since we have had them. How about we go to Dubai to buy some dates? Of course, it’s a good time to talk nonsense. Ah, no, the first cliched place we are going to visit is Paris. We are going to sit and stare at the Eiffel tower from dusk to dawn. We are going to buy that shirt that says – J’aime la Paris. We are going to eat Croissants and drink wine instead of water. Sorry to interrupt but there’s person in front of you who has probably asked you a question and I think you should reply. “What?” I manage to mutter with an apologetic smile. “I like you” he says. Croissants and wine. You forgot to include cheese. Cheese & chocolate croissants and wine, happy? And Eiffel tower and that museum Dan Brown wrote about. “Hey! Are you even here?”
No. I am in Paris. I am busy doing all those overrated things as a part of an automatic defense mechanism against your recent statement and expectations.
“Yes, here.”
“So, don’t you have anything to say?”
“Nothing yet.”
He gives an understanding nod. Aww…that’s sweet. And the moment I confess this, some other voice in my head taunts, “Why are you doing this to him! He is nice!” I know and with this storms in the guilt, as if waiting impatiently just outside the door the whole time. The Paris dream vanishes in the air. The damp patches in the wall turns invisible. This is my turn to look at him. He smiles and sips the coffee, which is savored by a few caffeine addicted strands of his mustache too. Probably you are going to write a poem on this later. On him? On my guilt? Or the mustache drenched in coffee? You know I won’t. There’s only one asshole I write poems about and in the end they don’t even turn out to be about him. “Not a good moment to be thinking of your ex, just saying,”someone retorts in my head again.
“Up for dessert?” I ask, trying to change the topic.
“No, I think you are already enough sweet to handle.”
What?
“Too cheesy?” He asks.
“Yes.”
Good, at least he knows. And did he just say no to desserts?
“I warned you I am cheesy.”
When? Maybe when you were in Paris munching on Croissants or Dubai buying dates.
“And I am not done yet…I have been meaning to tell you this all evening so I am just going to be done with it -You are really beautiful.” he says.
Right. He could have called me a rogue. He could have called me dumb and accused that I couldn’t even do arithematic. He could have told me how judgmental I am. He could have told me that I am disgusting especially when I make noise when I chew. He could have told me that my posture isn’t right. I tend to slouch and walk like Shaggy in Scooby Doo. He could have told me that I am malnourished and probably too tall! He could have told me all of these and I would have been offended, yes but I would have survived. But instead he says – You are really beautiful. And I am more offended than I can EVER be. This is what I don’t understand.

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