The boy sat at the table right in front of the entrance, so directly in front that it was impossible not to see him when you stepped into the café. He kept glancing at the door every time it opened; perhaps awaiting someone. He is well dressed in a half-sleeve shirt and jeans, a whiff of perfume, and neatly tousled hair, like he is on a date.
A girl walks in, just as I am about to make more Sherlock Holmes-like (or Dr Watson-like) observations and draw up hypotheses. And I know from the way our hero’s mouth stretches, it is the ‘someone’ he is here for. I shall refer to him as such, for I reckon he shall be an interesting character. His date will be ‘the girl’ until I determine whether she will play a part in our hero’s story or, rather, in mine.
‘Story’ might not be the right word; this an assignment for my creative writing class I’m taking to be a ‘writer.’ I certainly look the part in black, thick glasses, oxidised silver jewellery, hair in a bun, sitting hunched over my laptop in an overpriced but aesthetically pleasing café.
I glance at my watch, 5.36 p.m. The girl is late; our hero, early like a gentleman, has been waiting for nearly ten minutes.
It doesn’t matter though, because our hero is pleased to see her. Perhaps, because they are seated back, heads leaning against their chairs, or being soft-spoken myself, I can overhear their conversation. They are talking about their jobs now, the schedules and bits about their families. They don’t seem to know each other intimately, yet they find common bits and cling to them as children to familiar faces in a crowd. At one point, the guy asks her- Didn’t she work at so and so?
As if he hadn’t looked her up on the various socials to know it already. But he is the hero, so I give him the benefit of the doubt; he didn’t want to make any assumptions. Their drinks arrive- a coffee with a small biscotti for him and an iced tea for her. They sip them during lulls in the conversation, which is now getting quite monotonous, at least to me.
I imagine at the very moment my attention drifts from the conversation, perhaps he draws the conclusion that she is ‘the one’. Perhaps, she realises how much he reminds her of her father- this can go both ways. Perhaps he decides to ask her out again, or not. Or he recognises the flash of the notorious red flag in her behaviour.
I shall utilise this time to describe her instead of cooking the imaginary biryani. She is wearing a crimson jumpsuit, matching lipstick, a nearly invisible pair of glasses and has let her hair down. She is pretty, has a nice, wide smile that our hero draws out ever so often, or perhaps she is generous with it.
They are going to the counter to order again, making me wish I could either follow them to keep my story going or that the café had waiters. Why does the coffee cost Rs. 250 if I can’t even hear the waiter say- ‘Is that all, ma’am? Perhaps you’d like to try a dark chocolate muffin with it?’ Then, I might make a comment about watching my weight and hopefully, be cajoled into getting one anyway.
To be fair, I am certain the host taking the order might say something to that effect. There was a bit of a cute exchange before this. The girl, upon being asked if they should order food, replied- ‘Oh, I thought we were just getting coffee?’
I infer that our hero had asked the girl if she’d like to get coffee, and she had taken it literally.
They are talking more openly now, perhaps because he has asked her a question about saving taxes, a subject she seems disproportionately passionate about. At one point, she lowers her voice and whispers- ‘Now, I’m not supposed to tell you this…’
And I can’t overhear the next words without giving away my eavesdropping, so I restrain myself.
Our hero guffaws loudly, and the girl is pleasantly surprised by his amusement. A waiter carries over a rectangular pizza, and the couple pulls out a slice each on their ceramic plates.
Just as I think I should crown her a heroine, she tears a piece off the crust and plops it in her mouth like a toddler tearing a chapati. She quickly recovers, though. Perhaps it was the dent in our hero’s cheek when he laughed that had distracted her, she eats normally after that.
The conversation proceeds like a determined beginner running a marathon- sprints, nearly jumps, stumbles, slows down, stops for a break, and then restarts with vigour. When the girl has learnt all the patterns on the colourful tiles covering the table, our hero suggests they leave. The girl nods, and they head to the door. Shoving my laptop into the tote, draining my cup of forgotten, cold yet precious coffee, I run behind them.
I arrive just in time to see our hero driving away with his heroine.
Their story continues, but mine ends here.
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