That Thing You Do

It was an otherwise ordinary evening with a foreboding sense of a storm. Vasundhara had settled in her kitchen after completion of the day's editing. It was time to un-edit. She was working her way with a stew and a cake and zoning in and out of the movie on TV. The drink in hand was a coffee liqueur presented by one of her cousins on her birthday. Birthdays. They were such a disaster. What was it after all? A reminder of memories one may have once held. She changed the channel to a Wimbledon movie. Ten days to strawberries and cream. Eight days to London. She had waited for this moment since the time she rooted for the gentleman on grass, Roger Federer. She made sure she had tickets to one of his matches in rounds two and three.

Round of Sixteen and Semi-Final was a promise from the Prince of Silence. He had surprised her exactly a month back with his call to confirm her availability for the Wimbledon. He never gave her an option. She fell for that tight space of no choice which spoilt her. Over the month she went shopping in solitude. And extravagantly gifted him with the Final. She would, as planned.

He called this morning to back out of the entire trip. He had a conference in Cairo to attend and invited her over. She hung up. Like all other times of wilderness, she would have to do this by herself too. Cheer for perfection. Indulge in the goodness of a summer in England. And hate herself for missing him in spite of it all.

The cake was slightly overdone and the stew was good. She decided against a night walk and took to her bedroom with the bottle instead. She couldn't fathom the reason why it pained her so much. This was his habit, yet each time she would let him hurt her. The AC made a melodious hum sound, while the nerves were yelling. She dialled his number. As usual there was no response. She was filled up with an anger she did not know existed in her. She stared out of the window. The storm was over.

With an unfamiliar will, she wished to hang from the fan, and swallow some pills and slit her wrist. She wished to murder him with ice, she almost called his wife. The storm was over.

She wrote him a letter instead.