Over An Orange Cup With A Chipped Handle

no beginning no end this is not a story

First time you came over you refused chai. It offended my naani. Who says no to tea? Too modern. Don’t bring such people home. While bidding goodbye that evening, you placed a jasmine flower in my palm, wilted, fading like the day was.Your retreating figure as you walked towards the taxi made me feel wistful, why was I missing you already? I think my heart had already decided to love you, and your aversion to tea, and everything else that came after it. Not a lot did. You left an imprint on me, scooped out most of my heart and left. Retreating until you were merely a speck, a pointed needle poking at me constantly. 

Five nights ago, Romi came over. He asked me about you and I had nothing to say. Last I heard, you were getting married. Or maybe moving cities. I don’t know, I tend to not think about the real you much. For me, you don’t exist in this world. You are the woman of my dreams, and that’s where I keep you. Tonight I will go to bed, and picture you getting out of the taxi, towards me. Again. I will put flowers in your hair. You will take my hand and lead me to my room. If I keep quiet enough, the buzzing of the night turns into a softer hum, of you saying that you love me, over and over. I will sleep. Toss and turn. Get up. Make tea.