Nothing really happened. Nothing expected or unexpected. We had very little time to catch up, except for one evening when we discussed sizes. Of various things. We did that every time we met. Exchanged notes. He and I.
It happens, boss. It happens to you sometimes. Happened to me many times. You are led on, carrots dangling, and then dumped. So big deal! You go dump someone in return, simple. Your hurt ego comes back to its normal size. You feel good, "another one bites the dust." In your mind it's only cliches that run.
Not in yours. In ours. That was a generalization, "you." Not for you, because you are special. You have a vaster repertoire of analogies or quotes to choose from. Your mind has stored many more metaphors and symbols than ours could in the last ten years. Maybe more. I know you for the last ten years.
The significant other is in the dark. Gullible and unsuspecting. She calls to find out how you are, how work is. I want to see her. Is she very sexy? "Do I get to sleep with her if I ever go there?" I wondered. A man's mind is one track. Mine is. Especially when I think of making love to a strange woman who's desperately in love with someone else. It is not kinky to think like that. It's natural, trust me.
You are drunk. And hence quieter than the usual quiet.
I liked your choice of Smirnoff Raspberry Twist. It has an expensive taste. But I couldn't figure what to have it with. Soda tasted nice, but I would have preferred to cover up the raspberry with lemon.
We talked about our first bike ride together. All the way to the Rohtang. About Vinay and Revati who are busy catching fish these days. About the gay Belgian who kept ogling at me all day from his third-floor balcony. The idea of making love to that guy did cross my mind, but by then (this was in the year 2000) I had become very heterosexual. I wanted one of our designers to come along with me, but you came with me instead.
Was it Kasaul? What was the name of this place near Manikarn? Kasaul? Do you remember the pair of panties we sniffed at? Or did I? I haven't written your name here, so don't get worked up. We do like sniffing panties of beautiful, young, stoned, Caucasian women. Only we don't get the chance too often.
And you rolled us joints. Very potent, adventurous joints. Fat, too.
Sayantani saw the pictures later and asked me why I wasn't wearing my jeans that day at the hotel balcony. She is possessive about my legs.
Even when the night got over, we never knew it was the last night together, catching up, listening to five-year old cassettes fished out from my shoe box of memories.
You got over it. I got over the bitterness lacing my mind. We were buddies again. We connected, no matter how far we were. The onlookers thought we had fought and were making up. They needn't know what we were bitter about.
Thanks to Smirnoff, or to the coolth in the September night.