It was a lovely cold night. Patches of galaxies smeared up in the sky, stars twinkled in poetic rhythms, and the moon gleamed over the chirps of crickets with a perfect halo of silver.
Their lips had three inches of space between them, their fiery breaths engulfing each other already, their smouldering eyes fuelling the flames inside their hungry souls.
The tides would be roaring now, he thought.
The trees would be glowing now, she thought.
They had known each other for some time. It was a shared feeling of loneliness that brought them together. The oblivion, the anonymity, the insignificance, the hardships of being almost invisible.
He was a doctor. She was a designer. He loved her art. She loved his stethoscope. She would spend hours lying in his arms, the earpieces slotted in her ears as she listened to his heartbeat. It was her song, the pulsating rhythm of his existence.
For him, she was a resplendent canvas. A confluence of eternal beauty and unfading spark. Something he couldn’t stop wondering about. He’d stay awake and watch her innocence unfold as she slept, and as she woke up.
It was an almost perfect love story.
It started as friendship, over a pot of coffee. They talked about songs and art and life, and found each other complementary in some strange way. There was a quenching composure in their friendship. But tonight was the night of sparks and fire.
Their lips were two inches apart.
Emotions are so much like kites. You think you’ve got the spool tight, but in the end, it flies where it wants to. The wind of love drives the kite of emotions, and we just stand at our roofs, trying to hold on and save ourselves.
Somehow, amidst this endless universe, their kites got tangled. The occasional accidental touching was slowly replaced by holding hands and entwining fingers. The hugs of sympathy were replaced by hugs of joy. The kiss had to be the second last nail in the coffin.
The last persons they had kissed were still alive, and their spouses.
His wife was an actress and her husband was a spoiled drunkard. She was flying in the skies and he had sunk to the trenches. Both were decaying behind their glossy masks. And both were hated. Almost.
But things had started out perfect, like they always do. He met her in the college fest, sparks flew, they screwed each other, and that’s what they had been doing till now, however, in a completely different sense.
She met him through a mutual friend. He was the best guy then. They were perfect. He used to be so romantic and caring, and so…so…someone else.
No matter how unvaryingly the clock ticks, time is never monotonous. Grief always follows the bliss. That’s the theory.
She thought about her seven year old daughter, about the last page of her notebook where she’d drawn three people. Her family with her mother on her left and her father on her right. Even though the father had a bottle in one of his hands and he was kind of staggering, he was clutching her daughter’s fingers with the other hand. There was something symmetrical amidst this tragic assymtry.
He thought about her nine year old daughter, about her birthday cake and how she wanted both her parents to cut it together. They were so happy that day, all three of them. It was true that the love between the two had whittled away to a meagre scent, but despite everything, there was something he owed. Trust.
Their lips were an inch apart. And yet, they never met.