Shadow of Spangles

It was time to move on, I decided. I decided, and once again sat back to cling to the ends of… what was it? A relationship?

R-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p. R-e-l… R-

I giggled. Where was the ship? And why were there so many Rs. Too many of them. They rolled off my tongue one by one, every time I uttered it. And they kept falling… falling… falling…

Just like I fell. In love.

Oh, I remember the day. Crystal clear. Rich. Flaming. Almost blinding. The crowded bus stop. The torrential rain. It was so romantic. Although, I know better now. The rain wasn’t romance budding. It was God. And he was crying for me. He was…

Where was I? Oh yes. The rain. We shared my umbrella. We stood close together, the repressed and burning throbs of passion that found their way to existence in French class smoldering like a pile of embers deep, deep beneath our drenched skin. And drenched clothes, sticking to our bodies.

That was what we shared the first day we were together. My umbrella. Later, though, we shared a lot more than that blue polka dotted skeleton of rusted rods, sticking out like an old man’s teeth, all out of place.

Lecture notes, with more doodles than notes. Love letters, with more love than the words could hold. Innumerable cups of overly sweet tea at Moni Da’s, with more sweetness in our budding romance than the tiny earthenware cup could take. And that one mug of black coffee, on the 27th of January. With more warmth in our hearts than the steaming brew.

That evening, we shared one more thing, after “sweet, reluctant, amorous delay”. The powerful beating of his heart straining through to match the pulse of mine, the warm cocoon of his sinewy arms, the prickle of his stubble against the curve of my neck…

Wait a minute. Why did I just quote Milton?

Never mind, I digress. But…

The futility of the word I just used made me break into peals of hysterical laughter. Hang on, reader. Hang on, there. Just a sec.

Right. Thing is, the digression wasn’t really unwarranted as my tale had already reached its end. The story is over. My love story… is… over!

That was the second time I fell. And this time, it hurt real bad. Oh we still stayed in communication.

A cascade of words, pleas, hopes from my end. Silence, from his.

I believe empty inboxes have a certain beauty of their own. How they show you nothing, yet show you everything.

And my inbox is one rogue creature. It kept on showing me… what I meant to him, what my love meant to him. But I can’t hold my poor inbox accountable for all the unwanted revelations. The final one came in person.

I was leaving the cafeteria. They were coming in. Mischievous laughter, clasped hands. He had on the same shirt he was wearing the day we met. The same lopsided smile, the same boyish charm. Only one thing differed. The hand he held.

I believe it is time to move on. So what if the ghost of his fruity voice still haunts me? So what if the sight of the letters make me break down? The letters will have to go and so will that damn umbrella. The battle is now mine.

Oh, what a grand term to use. Battle!

That reminds me, have you ever noticed how the cadence of the word “relationship” sounds like a released rocket, waiting to hit target?