The pitcher of sangria sits in front of her, sweating plump
beads, the crisp fruits gently bobbing in the red sea, as she soaks in the charmingly
docile sunshine. Taking in the faint notes of the band that manage to escape the
inky confines of the pub, vaguely circling the rim of her glass with a forefinger.
She is at her usual table; the one she’d fallen in love with instantly, all
those months ago. It sits near the pub's window and is shaded by a giant peach lace-and-cloth
parasol. The umbrella is unlike the others she sees in the numerous outdoor cafes
and pubs in the happy village of Felicity. It reminds her of the delicate,
hand-knit parasols genteel Victorian women would hide under, as they took long walks,
holding love letters discreetly to their bosoms. The umbrella, the table… among
the arsenal of smaller elements that come together to create the plush, downy,
dreamy love story that is Felicity.
She comes from a different planet. No, she hadn’t ‘come’
here in the true sense of the word- she had jumped in quite by accident. Lobbed
in by the turbulent winds of change and strong arms of destiny. She was looking
for answers, and on a train to nowhere, had gotten restless, and jumped off
at the next stop, for a cold coffee. It felt like walking right into the
embrace of God, she had marvelled. The gentle breeze stroked her cheeks, even
as the distinct aroma of the village hugged her tight, willing her to stay.
This was her destination then, she had decided, as she
watched the train roll away. Her bag, stuffed with old clothes, was still on the
train, but she had everything she really needed on her person.
She had found the ramshackle pub, nestled in the slightest alley,
even before she had a home. The peach parasol had caught her eye. But, it was
the apparition across the street in the old, sepia-hued house that had sealed
the deal. Looking at him was like looking at a constellation of stars in all
their shine. Like diving into the gooey, coconut-y centre of a dessert dim sum.
Felt like blue flames licking her skin, tickling her, warming her. Felt familiar. She had
stood, that day, for a good half hour. Transfixed, as the tall stranger moved in
mysterious ways, with amazing grace. She imagined his voice would sound like myrrh-soaked
wheat husk.
Even after she had found a cosy little home that afforded
her a view of the Big Dipper every night, she made the trek to the pub every
evening. It was her religion now.
Today, like all days, she sits by her sweating sangria, watching
the object of her affection. His crown of charcoal black complemented
beautifully by sharp, biting features and those eyes. The eyes… they seem almost
unmoving, inanimate, and yet abounding with the most exotic liquid expressions.
They give his face a rare beauty. Another sip of sangria slides easily down,
sending a cloud of smiles and courage upwards to her head. It has been three
months, she counts with her fingers absently.
Fate decides to throw his glance her way, just as she
catches a familiar tune wafting out, interspersed with the smell of waffles and
melting butter. It is like a live wire has touched her shoulder, and she tries
to joggle it off. He continues looking, through the glass pane, right at her. Unashamedly,
fearlessly at her. The minutes stretch into ticks-tocks of unbearable anticipation.
At long last, he walks out, not taking his eyes off her, picking
up a bunch of roses from the weather-worn cart parked on the cobblestone path. It
came between them for three months; it is a heavenly bridge now. There is something about him,
she muses, watching him walk towards her, in slow-motion. He looks like someone
who has walked out of an old sepia-toned photograph right into garish reality. He
glides easily into the seat opposite hers, not saying a word. His lips remain
unmoving, his eyes dance slowly. The roses pass hands. For an hour they only
look at each other, memorise each other’s profiles.
His arms, so strong. His chest, so sturdy. His forehead, so
majestic. His neck, so graceful, so strong. And, the scar that cut across it
cruelly. A scar that stretches from his jaw line to his collar bone. That scar…
that scar! Like a bolt of lightning, it extends and pierces her core. How had she forgotten it? Had she? There could be only one such beautiful
blemish in the world. And, she had once traced it with her forefinger every day,
wondering if, like it, their life together too would end abruptly. Waves of recognition
wash over her. A seed of anger, dormant all these years, germinates now, nourished
by the pangs of past pain. The questions
come oozing out of her mouth, thick with emotion and disbelief. She didn’t know
she held these questions captive, all these years. Even after her self-prescribed lobotomy. He takes her hand in his,
and patiently answers her… one question at a time. Growing one shade paler with
every answer. Strangely, every time he loses a shade of sepia, she feels a
fresh coat of peace and contentment drape her heart. What? When? How? She is unstoppable.
His face takes on a distinct pearly grey glow, in stark contrast to his mane
of burnt ebony.
It is nearing midnight and the skies blanket them, curiously
watching. All but satisfied, ‘Why?’ she finally whispers. A mixture of relief and
sadness clutches at her temples. He smiles, with the shadow of a cringe, and
breathes truth and good sense into her ears, blowing them across her conscious,
subconscious and super conscious. The clock strikes 12 and his transformation is complete. He stands up, like an actor from a 1920 silent movie, glistening grey and black, pulls out his wallet
and retrieves a photograph from their past. One last kiss. As
he readies to walk into the black and white photograph, he mouths, ‘Throw it away.’ One last
sip of Sangria. One last look at that face. She tosses the photograph into an
ancient carved fountain on her way home. Home. Home?
The air is cool. It smells of moving on. Her
last night at Felicity.
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