Every weekend it is someone new.

Some of them tall, some short, some dark and some fair.

Sometimes it’s pizza, sometimes a cup of tea.

Sometimes a bright and breezy evening by the beach, sometimes a dimly-lit fancy restaurant.

Every time, there’s a less familiar face in front of me and a menu that eventually does become familiar.

I’ve done this for a while. Even the waiters and the tea vendors are starting to notice now.

Sometimes the pasta is bland, other times, the coffee perfectly brewed.

Sometimes I find the memories of the conversations worthy of being cherished forever.

Sometimes I regret having done it at all.

Some make it to more than one meet. Some remain one-hit wonders. Some make me dream of one day making a family with them. Some make me feel insecure and insignificant.

It does get tiring sometimes. The same routine, only swapped by the people and the place and the food.

But I am still hungry. For food, for conversations and for companionship.

And I will continue to keep having, these weekends, in hopes of finding, the perfect combo that I am craving.

But I don’t see any other way out.

I can’t deal with this stress any longer, this self doubt.

What if I was wrong, what if I WAS the bad guy?

What if you were right, what if you were right about me never being able to find someone if I left you?

What if you WERE the one and I couldn’t realize it?

What if I pushed you away by expecting you to spend time with me?

What if I offended you by wanting to know where you were, what you were planning to do for the day?

All these questions. All this stress. I can’t take it any longer. I need relief from this pain. I have to do this. Maybe then, you would no longer be in my memories. I have to do this.

My thoughts are interrupted by the cab driver’s voice. “We’re here.” he says.

I get out, pay him, turn around and start walking. It’s a cold night after the rains. I walk towards the entrance of the building. The glass door feels cold on my palms as I push it open. There’s light music being played and as I look around, I see him. I go over to him and ask, “Ranjith, right?”

To which he responds “Yes, have a seat… You look nice… So, shall we order something?”

“Yes, I would love some coffee” I say to him.

And say to myself “I had to do this”.

Notes:

• This piece was shared by Mujeebur Rahman at Orinam’s 49th Quilt session on Nov 24, 2019, in Chennai.
• Image credits: Broken Heart symbol by Nevit Dilmen. Wikimedia Commons. 2009. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

I was buying groceries that my mom had asked me to.

Oh, my mother! Never mind, I will tell her that there was a long line at the billing counter… She might get worried. Maybe I’ll just leave her a text.

“Going to meet a friend, will be late”

You are my friend, right? I suppose not. We do not know each other and barely have any intentions of changing that.

I reach closer to you, in sync, our eyes closing and our lips parting. There is no more talking. Was there any to begin with?

We leave the marks of our fingers and mouths on each others’ skin, mapping the moment we have shared. The marks would take a lot of explaining to do back home, I will figure something out.

We’re done and out of breath. The hormonal rush that our bodies had created is starting to wear off.

Wait, you have brown hair. I’m just noticing that.

I’m tired, but I have to leave and I know you would want the same.

That is what I love about this relationship: we don’t fake it… We don’t pretend to like each other, not anymore than we actually do.

I say goodbye and leave.

After reaching home, I send you a text.

”Had a nice time tonight, thanks :)”
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Notes:

• Mujeebur Rahman read this piece at Orinam’s Quilt gathering on Sept 29, 2019 at Semmozhi Poonga in Chennai. To read other articles from his ‘Stories of Intimacy’ series, visit his  Facebook page.
• Cell phone image adapted from Santeri Viinamäki’s original on Wikimedia Commons, licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.
• Image below by the author.