Letter to N, A Chapter

N,

I wish I could take your sexy name in the sexy way you liked to be called. Somethings cannot be built back even when equipped with the best of expressions and the choicest of words. Like a memory of you, or a story around you. Or the exact accumulation of feelings including that of guilt, of a very premature first kiss. You were always this charming little bastard, slithering your way into multiple hearts and lips maybe. And your English, god your English. Listening to your many misadventures felt like drinking down a smooth shot of scotch. No teacher at that point had that gripping effect on me like you slimy little creature did.

Where are you today? Do you have your dad's RayBan which I sat upon and broke? How many women did you bed by now? How much do you dope? How many buckets do you down? Do you remember us and the excitement we shared? How did you manage slick answers to questions like "When is your birthday?" -- "When is SRK's birthday? One day after that." How can one forget that? How does one undo little moments of yesterday?

The whole of today went without a thought of you. In fact I have been working twice as hard to plan my next travel. Yet, at the end of the day, beside my espresso vodka, here you are. Just this overpowering memory. As you must be partying with twenty somethings, into the night, I spend it here thinking about good times. Childish ones. Lovely ones.

Damn you bastard. I miss you. There has been no one like you.

K.