Leftovers

Standard

From where I sit, the place looks a little pale, one of those café’s which has kind of lost its race with its neon glittering, over crowded counterparts. I assume, the place must have had its loyalists, but today not many seem to be around. May be it had to do with the hour of the day. The grand clock on the wall, showed a little past 10. It was that time of the day, when it was well past breakfast but a little away from lunch. Not many people hang around the old time café’s during this hour of the day, unless they are one of those who hang out buried in a book or a laptop. But today I can see none around, it is just me.

I lay there, on an empty coffee table, with fresh stains of leftovers around me, living me with a feeling, that may be I am one too, a stain, a leftover stain. 

A sudden gush of wind caught me off guard, turning a few pages backwards, taking me along.

I can see an young man, may be in his late teens. The impatience of the youth eminent in the rhythmic noise his cell phone made, with its every touch, to slightly damp surface of the table he sat at. The morning dew formed a layer of tiny droplets, giving a fresh and bubbly look to the otherwise worn out table of the yesteryear’s. I guess he was waiting for a text or a call, he made it a point to flip open his cell phone, in case his mobile forgot to signal him, when whoever he was waiting for, made a contact. He spent a really tough 90 minutes here, occasionally sipping a cuppa, or a vigorously tapping of his legs firmly onto the ground for a few minutes and then getting back to his monotonous and frustrating wait. Finally, after about what it seemed like an infinite wait, his phone is ringing. 

I am being an eavesdrop today and picking up the eager voice the guy is sporting, 

“I think today is the day, I ought to tell her, I need to come out of the hiding, its been weeks since I have been leaving her gifts, things I am sure she has enjoyed, leaving her with words which she cherishes the most, I have been giving her clues to find a way to me. This has got to end today, in fact this should have ended by know, its well past her time here, and here I am waiting, with no trace of her”

Ah the wind yet again, as though it does not want me to revisit the whole of it. Taking me forward, well past the lunch, right into the time of the day I love the most, the dusk.

I see her, a lady well past her prime, hair crowned with a bunch of gray wisdom. There is something about her eyes, burning red in color, and swollen out of their sockets, indicating sleepless nights or hours of crying. Her face looks void of emotions though. She does not look like a regular here at all, this was not the time the or the place for a person of her age. I surprisingly see a sense of fitting in, as though she has accepted this. I see her reaching to her bag pulling out a plastic bag, it seems to be loaded with things which I cannot see from where I sit. I wait in hope that she pulls things out one by one, just when she is about to get the first item out, I see a young girl approaching her. I guess she must have been here to meet her young friend, I prognosticate.

Now that I can here their conversation, I let myself flow to into her voice

“Oh I am not sad at all, I know she left us happily, after years of struggling, I had given up the hope that I would see her smiling again, but something changed in the last few days, she seemed to be happy, may be it had something to do with this bag I found below her bed, may be this is where she hid  all her happiness, I guess I met you at the right time, I would be really happy to see her last bit of happiness being spread across the numerous children at the orphanage which you guys used to visit, I guess she left us with no regrets.”

The powerful wind at its work again, behaving as though it exactly knew the cue when to turn the pages over, and interrupt my narration. 

I lay there, on an empty coffee table, with fresh stains of leftovers around me, living me with a feeling, that may be I am one too, a stain, a leftover stain.

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8 responses »

  1. Leftover stain. I don’t know about the stain, but sometimes, I do feel like leftover! I liked the way you have used ‘wind’ 🙂

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