Stranger On a Monday.
There was nothing enticing about this Monday morning. I wore my usual black pants with a white shirt. I applied my usual mascara and tangerine coloured lipstick. I picked my usual coffee and newspaper from the local cafe before proceeding towards the station to board a metro to my workplace. It was yet another mundane Monday morning and I was definitely not looking forward to it.
As I was waiting for a friend to join me at the station, I noticed a man sitting on a bench. He was rummaging through the contents of his bag as he muttered something incoherent. There was something awfully plain about him. Something awfully regular. I spent more seconds gazing at him as he finally fished a paperback out of his bag. He carefully plucked his spectacles from the inner pockets of his bag and drifted into his own world of reading. He was probably unaware of my presence, of people walking around him, of the man selling tea behind him, of vagrants collecting stray pieces of paper near his feet. He was oblivious to the arrival and departure of trains as I was oblivious to everything around me. Not very often you come across someone who pulls you into their world at the very first sight. Not because they have exotic coloured eyes or great hair. It is mostly because they are your own flavour of people.
I wished I could talk to him, though. It would have been brilliant, wouldn’t it? To forego the responsibilities of work and walk to the closest coffee shop with him. We’d eat breakfast and talk about how much I loved Woody Allen movies while he’d tell me how he did not like a particular movie of his. We’d order more cups of coffee while he’d excuse himself to smoke. He’d come back to rekindle forgotten memories and lost conversations; we’d talk about our first loves and first jobs. And when we’d walk out of the coffee shop, it’s a little late in the day and we’d decide to watch a movie. In the darkness of the movie hall, I’d look at his otherwise imperfect features in awe while he’d run his fingers on my wrist sending tingles down my spine. We’d look at each other in the darkness like we’ve known each other for days. I am afraid, for years! In the evening, we’d spend hours on my balcony staring at the sunset while sharing crammed secrets. He would tell me about the girl that broke his heart brutally while I’d tell him about the painful death of my pet.
It wouldn’t have been perfect but it would have been something.
My reverie of thoughts was easily broken with a tap on my shoulder. My friend was here and it was time for us to leave. The awfully plain yet the perfect guy was not to be seen anywhere. He must have left when I was tirelessly concocting stories in my head.
As I boarded the metro with my friend, I told her, “I saw the perfect guy for me.”
“I should have told him a hi, ” I sighed.
But some stories were only meant to live in our head while I was meant to ruin my life with some more Excel sheets today.