He walked down the pavement, nonchalantly avoiding the hawkers strewn on it. Miserable little twits, he thought. He did not have anything against anybody in particular. He just hated them all. Except her. Her, he loved.
She was dressed in white. Long, flowing white. The kind that strains the sun into one's soul. He could see her walk down the long corridor from his bed. It seemed as if she was floating. He turned to see the cut marks on his arm. He remembered walking into his bedroom earlier, with the tin of cookies. He remembered the screaming. He remembered all the shattered glass. He remembered a lot of blood. She walked into the ward right then.
The cafe still had a brass bell on its door. It rang every time the door opened. A welcoming, playfull ring. The elegant pista green leather upholstery was gone. Replaced by bright cubist patches of woven colour. He took the corner seat, his usual, beside the glass window that looked out into the pavement.
It is good that you are ok, she said, almost thankfully. She thought for a while, choosing her words with care, I am leaving you. It cannot work anymore. I did not want you to see me with him like that. But you have known it for some time now, haven't you? , she asked in casual rhetoric. He saw her, he saw his arm. The scar was still throbbing a warm crimson red.
It had been a year since he had last come here. He had come here to buy a tin of chocolate chip cookies. He wanted to surprise her or rather, placate her. They had not been talking since the past few days. He stirred the sugar in his latte. The coffee tasted the same - a frothy, milky taste that he liked. He wondered if they still stocked the cookies. He never had a chance to taste them last time.
You always knew you had to be alone. She had put her hand on his. Did you know it would come to this? To a time when we will not recognize ourselves. She gently pressed his palm and said, stay safe. Then she had turned around and walked out. He had lain there watching her glide away into the reflections.
He found it difficult to sit straight with his jacket on so he took it off. The 0.44 Smith and Wesson inside his jacket was heavy. It had taken precisely two shots from it. It will take one more, he thought. Everything was finally as it had to be. He had to be alone. He smiled. He remembered what she had said. And he sat there for sometime, sipping his memories and his coffee.
