Karen got down from the train and started walking towards the exit…no, actually prodding towards the exit. Her clothes full of blood, her face completely covered with tears, her body cold, her arms wrapped around her waist. The tears were still rolling down her eyes; she was not even aware of the surroundings or of the situation she was in for all she cared about was going home and crashing. Her weary mind would not let any other thought in for it was full of memories from the last 3 months.

3 months earlier….

Karen was waiting outside a classroom for her history professor, absorbedly reading IT HAD TO BE YOU when someone patted her on the back.

“Hi Karen” he said.

Her heart skipped a beat; he was the guy she had been noticing everyday in her regular coffee shop. Well, he was hard to miss, and to top it all he took the same coffee as her, a spiced pumpkin latte.

“Hi” she said, trying not to smile and curb her excitement, instead sounding hesitant.

“Hi! I’m Wes, Western.”

“What?” actually hesitant this time.

“Yes you heard it right my name is Western.”

“Sorry! “

“No problem, I am used to that reaction. So are you waiting for someone?”

“Yeah… Prof. Gerard Hasselhoff. I want to talk about the new schedule for summer.”

“Well you are wasting your time then. He is not returning until next week from his vacation.”

“Oh! Who is taking the class then?”

“His assistant”

“So now that you are free and I have noticed that we share our taste in coffee would you like to have some with me?”

Trying not to smile again, she says “Hmmm, Okay.”

Western is a tall handsome guy, a real charmer and Karen a true beauty. But that is not what Wes noticed in her, it was the glimmer in her deep dark eyes when she laughed, the way her face lifted is what attracted him. It was a shame though that she did not date many guys, Wes was sure that half his class guys were gawking them at that moment.

And that is how it started. They met every day in the same coffee shop and rarely did they try a different flavor. It was unusual for Karen to get so close to someone in such a short time. They shared many other interests but one; history was not his favorite subject.

“You don’t look like a romantic with that cap you wear” she said when he got her flowers the first time.

“Well, you are right to an extent. Ask the other girls I have dated, they might tell you the same. But it is not everyone that I want to be romantic with.”

It’s like he knew what she wanted to hear all the time. She was surprised how attracted she was to him in just 3 weeks. He made her feel special like no one else had ever.

One morning Wes called Karen and asked her to meet him at the beach. Karen had made up her mind, she was going to do what she had never done before, admit her love for him. She wore the dress he had bought for her; she had saved it for a special moment. Before heading to the place it was she who bought flowers this time, not sure if she wanted to give them to him or just hold them, rather, clasp them in case her wits give away.

Surprised is what she was when she reached there. This is not what she had expected! There he was, wearing a white shirt and blue jeans with red roses in his hand. “I love you Karen Harper”, he said coming close to her. She wasn’t sure if the tears in her eyes were because she heard those words from him or coz she did not have to do it first. She smiled at the thought and said “I love you Wes…Western”.

Was it the sidewalk or the red carpet she was walking on?! The joy, the relief she felt was beyond belief. He had reserved a place for them at the fancy beach-side restaurant they always talked about going to. “Thud!!” she heard. She did not know what just happened; she felt her arm rupture and his body move away from her. Something hit them, and she fell a few feet away. She could see her arm turning blue, the pain was unbelievable. She got up and turned to run towards him and then she could feel nothing. Her pain was gone, she could hear nothing. She fell again but not out of soreness this time; his white shirt had turned red, as red as the roses that had fallen next to her. He was staring at her, staring like he had never seen her before, he did not blink, did not move, just stared.

She heard a voice from behind, she had to do something. No, nothing was wrong; “it is going to be fine” she told herself. Someone had called the hospital; no this is not how she had imagined them. She held his head in her arms and kissed him, she told him it was going to be alright. He blinked; he did blink once and tried to say something. She knew what he was saying, “I love you too” she said. He smiled and that was the last expression on his face. It stayed the same when the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took him from her arms, it remained the same till they reached the hospital, it remained the same till they had covered him in the cloth.

Her tears had stopped. Was it real she asked herself? She felt drained and tired. She did not want to treat her arm, it pained more now; she just wanted to go home and crash on her bed.

Present…

She reached home and crashed on her bed and she never woke up.

Commotion crowded the café.

“Merci.” I looked up, and the waitress tilted the pot upright. Her smile could have been a twitch. She nodded before stepping over to the next table. It seemed the whole neighborhood was here.

Our saucers clinked. I pulled mine toward me, pushed his toward him. Steam rose from the black liquid, and the aroma jolted me. I didn’t add sugar, but I stirred anyway.

Across from me, he scooted his chair closer to the table and apologized for being late. He picked up the sugar dispenser. White crystal granules cascaded in a tapered stream into his cup. He stirred, set down his spoon. He picked up his cup, then set it down. He saw me not paying attention.

He studied me as I surveyed the room.

A drowsy couple sat a few tables from us. The woman tried to catch her partner’s eye, but he peered at his cup, transfixed.

The waitress moved from their table. She carried that pot gracefully, efficiently, filling cup after cup, starting along the back wall. People smiled at her or thanked her, and she never said anything, only halfheartedly smiled back and nodded.

The grey sky muffled the midsummer morning; conversations became a steady grumble. A gentle wind sighed through the open doors and windows.

He snapped his fingers, bringing my eyes back to him.

I smiled politely. “Hi.”

His face had pleased me once upon a time, from his piercing eyes to his untamed hair to the squareness of his jaw to the cleft in his chin. I had known his countenance for years now.

His voice blended in with the chattering. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but I knew he was breaking up with me. He called last night. We agreed to meet here, at this time, for that reason. It didn’t surprise me.

He slid his saucer over a bit too quickly. A little bit of liquid lurched and sloshed onto the table.

I kept stirring.

A woman sat by herself over by the far window. She looked wistfully out at the plaza. An infused fog floated from the two cups at her table.

I returned my gaze to the man across from me. His mouth formed words that stuttered through the pervading interference, words about our not talking to each other, about our growing apart, about our interests changing.

About our not loving each other anymore.

What was I supposed to say?

Spoons swirled in cups all around me and tapped bent melodies on the brims. I had a peripheral awareness of how my wrist kept rotating, round and round, guiding the spoon, first clockwise, then the other way.

Bits of dialogue bounced around the room. The same, sad refrain swelled in hushed echoes and counterpoints throughout the crowd, like a fugue with a broken heart.

The nervous clatter from all the voices, the cups, the spoons, the coffee, jammed my ears.

He slid his saucer back in front of him.

My spoon kept moving, as did my eyes.

A woman at a corner table tore pieces of her croissant and dipped them in her coffee before eating them. The man sitting beside her leaned closer to her. His hands waved and pointed at something imaginary, which he seemed to be explaining.  He looked at her patiently. He shrugged.

Her eyes focused on her morning sop.

The man sitting across from me raised his cup to his mouth, pressed his bottom lip against the close edge and sipped. The liquid flowed between his teeth, and he swallowed. He sipped again. He closed his eyes while letting the coffee course through his body, his brain, his heart. He pursed his lips and exhaled.

I held my breath.

He set the cup down. He reached toward me and wrapped his clammy fingers around my hand.

He let go.

He sipped again.

Then, he drank deeply.

The waitress had begun to serve the center tables. She hadn’t taken a break; she hadn’t refilled the pot.  She poured cup after cup, gave nod after formal nod. No one refused her. The scent of the warm, dark nectar permeated the entire café and wafted outside, luring passersby to enter.

I put my spoon down on the saucer and looked back at the corner table. The woman was gone, her croissant was gone. The man that came with her looked confused and sullen. Lost. He scoped the café, perhaps wondering where his love went.

The man across from me said I’m a different person now, he asked where we went wrong, when I just stopped caring. He drank his coffee in between complaints of how I don’t meet his expectations, how boring our relationship has become, how much he has grown and improved and become a better person to make me happy; how I’ve made no effort to progress with him.

The waitress had already started bringing people their checks, outer tables first. Without breaking her stride, she placed a bill between our cups.

I took it. “Merci.”

The man from the corner table left. A few moments later, two ladies, separately, also departed.

The waitress returned to the serving station. Smirking, she leaned against the counter and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

As my eyes followed her, the man across from me expressed that I’m different but it’s not a good kind of different; how his perspective has changed and mine hasn’t, so I don’t see how much he feels sorry for me. I turned my head to face him. I strained to hear him as his voice merged with silence. He took one last gulp. He said I couldn’t even see him.

Suddenly, and for a long time, it was true.

The scene is a Pompeii in the making, a life caught with its pants down.  The coffee waits expectantly, a thin layer of dust coating the red tablecloth and the surface of the liquid, which long ago passed from hot to lukewarm to cold.

Over the edge of the table one dainty ginger paw lifts and muscles stretch until razor sharp claws snag what was once the crisp, flaky edge of a croissant.  Feline teeth pierce an exterior now hardened by time.  After devouring his share of the orphaned pastry in greedy, yet genteel, bites the cat lazily licks his whiskers, crouches and springs onto the table causing the dust to rise and glitter in the early light before disappearing again into itself.  Sidestepping the now empty plate he sits and raises a paw to his pink tongue.  The only sounds to be heard here are the purring of the cat and the buzzing of the flies.   A fly hovering above the table catches his amber eye.  Tensing, he leaps.  The fly escapes but the vase tips and falls to the cold, hard floor.

Dried flowers and ceramic pieces now lie beside the still and mottled hand of a woman.  A woman who had once waited expectantly alongside the coffee until that flash of light and sound like a million waves crashing caused her to rise from her seat.  It might have felt like being plunged into a vacuum.  It might have felt like the leap your heart makes the first time you fall in love.   It may have felt different to everyone, but in one exhalation the human race stopped loving, stopped breathing, crumbled beneath that otherworldly wave of light, and fell to the earth.  Now the woman lies like a doll without her stuffing, discarded, upon a beautiful marble floor.  A Pompeii in the making, only with no one left to discover it.  No one left to lament the horror and the beauty of what remains.  A large, fluffy tail brushes lightly against a lifeless hand as the ginger cat walks toward the sound of birds waking outside.

Words Will Fade Away
Thoughts Forgotten

Our Bodies Will Perish 
Promises Abandoned

The Only Survivor Through Centuries To Come 
Will Be Our Spirit….
Our Soul……….

So This Very Moment As I Vow…….
Let No Words, No Promises…. No Feelings Distract Me…..

Let The Spirit Of Our Friendship….
Cherish the moments of eternity amidst blossoming plums in the city of love… Paris…

Our favorite coffee table a reminder of being mortals…
Can never lessen the charm of the purple flowers atop…

I lay the paintbrush down, resting it with the tip suspended, and take a few steps back to get the full effect.

“Shit!”

“What’s wrong?” Chris calls from our bedroom.

“Everything! I’m such a hack! I might as well title this one Stilllife of Shit,” I respond.  Crap. Feces. Excrement.

All my flaws are so obvious. The color combinations are garish. Why did I think a Cerulean blue tablecloth would evoke “Paris”?  The brushstrokes are massive and amateurish—a mockery of Impressionism rather than an homage.And fruit! Heaven help me, why did I use a cliché like fruit as the centerpiece? I start criticizing the canvas out loud as I hear Chris’s footsteps come to a stop behind me.

“So quit.”

He says it as if quitting were an option. Well, that would make life so much easier, wouldn’t it? I close my eyes and sample freedom, wondering what I else I could be doing right now.

But he knows I can’t just stop.

“Their anniversary is next month.  I only have a month left to get this right,” I explain. We’ve had this conversation so many times.

“Is there a wrong and right in this case?” he asks.

“Of course, there is. Wrong is…well, it’s like that saying about pornography. I know it when I see it. And this,” I wave wildly at the painting, “is completely wrong.”

I’ve been working on this for over a year, a few months after Chris and I moved in together. My brother and I had agreed to celebrate our parents’ fiftieth anniversary with a grand reception. Our tour of The Grand’s facilities ended in a foyer decorated with faux Impressionist paintings.  That’s when I had the bright idea to paint something special for the occasion. I should have known better than to take inspiration from hotel artwork.

Now three failed canvases, painted layer over layer until their surfaces mimicked stucco, sit in the closet a few feet away, my graveyard. This new one will join them when the final layer dries.

I drop onto the futon we keep here in my studio and hang my head.  Hands slip beneath my hair and massage the sides of my neck; I can feel the knots resist his fingers.

Fifty years. When my parents talk about their life together, one of the moments they keep coming back to is this one: a light breakfast in Paris on their honeymoon. Strange, really, how this quiet interlude stands out so strongly for both of them. They describe it with awe…not just romantic but transcendent, their connection almost mystical.

That’s what I’m trying to capture here. They’ve long since forgotten the tiny physical details. So I long to immortalize the sensation, if not the actual experience, for them.

Because it has been my heart’s talisman. Because sometimes when they look at each other, I see the connectedness wash over them anew.

Chris knows about this story. But I sit back and tell him again anyway because I need to hear it again. Need to refocus my motivation.

“If you’re just painting for your parents, it doesn’t have to be perfect. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

I know he’s trying to help. I can’t bring myself to speak.

“That landscape you painted in October was pretty,” he continues. “The field of lavender with poppies. I bet they would love that one.”

“Salvia, not lavender. And that one didn’t get what I’m trying to convey at all.”

“You see, that proves my point. You’re obsessing, Dee. Shake your head at me all you want. It’s true. Ease up, would you?”

“As if it were so easy!” I throw my hands up, then grab my brushes to go clean them.

“My love,” he says, as he touches my shoulder, stopping me at the doorway. “There’s more to life than this one painting. Your parents will love whatever you give them. If you paint it with joy in your heart, so much the better, but don’t sacrifice everything else you have for this one thing.”

“You’ve met my father,” I say. “He’s not the romantic type. He’s reserved, practical. Do you know that he once described that moment—that little tête à tête—as the most perfect moment of his life? Even the births of me and my brother don’t quite compare, he said, because he was so worried about us and our mother. That moment in Paris, though, held for him such unencumbered joy, a joining of hearts and minds that he never thought truly possible. My father.”

“You’re not going to be able to capture that on canvas. That’s their memory, not yours. I don’t even know if the kind of experience you’re describing could be depicted in a painting.”

He doesn’t understand.

And suddenly I realize what’s wrong, what’s been wrong since before I even started this gift for my parents.

I hear his sharp exhale as I brush past him to pull a new canvas out of the closet.

“Dee! It’s enough already. Just give them one you’ve already finished!”

But as I set aside the blue painting and look at the clean, fresh surface in front of me, I can already see what I need to do. I can practically smell the plum blossoms and hear the clink of the coffee spoons as one is rested on the other. I see their hands just past the edge of the canvas, touching.

As Chris stomps out of the room, I set aside the conversation we will need to have later. For now, I need to concentrate on mixing the alizarin red, ultramarine blue, and a touch of white, to establish the scene perfectly.

Aakash walked into the house and automatically picked up his mail. A familiar handwriting caught his eyes, since Office had come into existence very seldom would one find a handwritten letter. As he began to slit open the envelope, his wife Ranjitha walked in carrying two cups of black coffee. ‘Hey honey, how was your day’, she asked, as she placed the two cups of coffee besides a plate of croissant and a vase of orchids. Aakash’s mind was was preoccupied. ‘Just the usual’, mumbled Aakash. He took his mail and the cup of coffee along with him and entered his study. Half an hour later he was standing near the French window tears in his eyes. The letter began like a conversation, no greetings, just words………..

We had spent a large part of our childhood and teenage years together. It amazes me that we never actually dated, but we did have a few intimate moments that left us a bit “giddy” and “blushed”. I remember the time you proposed in true filmy style with a hibiscus in hand and the clichéd words “Will you be mine”, it was tacky but I fell for it and do so every time I think about it. You need to know what happened that July day. Some things cannot be left half way it has to be finished. HE forced himself on me on that fateful day when there were celebrations going on in your house, a ‘family get together’ you told me, and I had to be there to represent US for you were out travelling, but it was more of a ‘gossiping get together’. Everyone was on the terrace, I came downstairs for some fresh air and peace of mind to free myself from all the gossips and back biting I was subjected to. HE made his way into the house on the pretext of using the bathroom, HE was not alone two of his friends accompanied him, all intoxicated and stoned. I was just being nice since I was in HIS house otherwise the very mention of his name disgusted me. HE and his friends forced themselves on me, taking advantage of my being alone and scared. They held my arms and took my clothes off; I told them to stop plenty of times and tried to push them away. I did all I could do with the power that I had at that point of time. I scream, scratched and pushed them but they were so extremely strong and it did not seem to make any sense to keep trying. I was worn out and tired. They were all over me and I had completely given up. I just stopped. It felt like an outer-body experience. It seemed as if I stepped out of my body and was watching them violate me, not able to do anything about it. All I was thinking was that they could take my body, but I would not let them take my soul! I did not feel a thing. When they were done they just left leaving me there wounded and crying. I passed out instantly. When I got up I got dressed and left for the police station where I made my statement. All the procedures and medical help took really long and by the time it was all done it was four in the morning. I was extremely tired and hungry I just fell off to sleep.

On waking up the next day all the cards had been turned in my direction, I was the slut and the story teller. One can do wonders when they have power and money, and that is what happened, the victim turned into the accused. I was alone, scared and miserable I tried calling you several times only to receive a sms from you which said that you didn’t want to stay in touch after all. Such is life ……………

You must be thinking why now when I had been silent for six long years. Do you know what makes me write to you today? I need to say good bye to you, after having spent six years with your ghost that has walked, slept, eaten and lived between my husband and me. I have come to realize that your intrusive presence has been there because I don’t want to let go of you. It took me an excruciating six years to individually erase every single memory I had of you. Every touch of your hand, the way you looked at me, your smile, your sense of humor, you sitting pressed up against me in the rickshaw. Those were my moments of hell after you left.

The past with you worries me, I can’t be dragged back into time. I have finally settled down, Good job, great husband. I finally feel successful, you represent failure to me. Failure to be strong enough to accept me in my moments of despair, failure to fight against your family for the unjust done to me. I wanted to be with you, and suddenly all the bitterness has gone away and I want to be with you again. I am no longer in love with you, but I think I still love you. Is that possible? I want to hold you and maybe make you laugh and maybe truly laugh myself for the first time in six years. I love my husband a lot. He has made me a better person. He is handsome and accomplished and we’re quite content. He is the sole reason I am living again and all I want to do is be with you right now.

And the letter ended just like that, disgusted with himself, Aakash scrunched up the letter and threw it in the waste paper basket, and took a sip of the black coffee which was now cold, then he picked up the letter from the waste paper basket, smoothed it out carefully, folded it and inserted it into his wallet.

“Admiration and love are two different things.” Rajiv clarified.

“Puh-lease…” Reena said with half closed eyes.

“No really…you never really understand what I try to say…ALL THE TIME!!” .The conversation was going to get spicy for sure.

“Yeah right! Who would? When your ‘lover’ tells you about a new girl from school or college or work who he ‘admires’…ALL THE TIME!” Reena air quoted and threw her hands in frustration.

“But…” Rajiv had no particular response in mind and hoped that Reena would interrupt him right there.

“What do you want to prove? Am I not good enough for you? Do you long to see them in me?” A closed ended question was the last thing that Rajiv wanted to answer.

“See, you are just making a mountain out of a molehill…” Of course he HAD to say something, although clichéd.

“I am sick of these girls…” Reena was in no mood to listen. Or was she just pretending to be angry? Old trick women endorse to bring out all the truth.

“Ok…let’s go for an ice cream?” Rajiv could have tried better.

“Not helping…”

“A drink…will that be fine?’

“Its 10 in the morning!!”

“Alright let me do something that I never did for those girls. Stay right there sexy, I’ll be back in some time .” Reena had no idea what Rajiv was up to.

Rajiv put his robe on, gave Reena a peck on her nose and left.

While Reena was looking out of the window at a nest built by a weaver, Rajiv emerged from behind the curtains with a tray with two cups of coffee, sandwiches and lilies that he managed to pick from Mrs. Sharma’s garden.

“That’s what I am talking about Raj. Come to me baby…” Reena curled and motioned both her index fingers.

“Oh! That smile reminds me of Tanya…did I tell you about her?”

“YOU ARE A DEAD MAN!”

The apron strings wrap around with an inch less extra. Jesse didn’t sleep at home last night. Again. How many weeks does that make? His pillow still smells of the laundry, smooth, crisp and shocking against the threadbare sheets. When he sold his bicycle, he brought home new pillowcases instead of the groceries he promised.

“Colette! You have a table waiting. Chip-chop, hurry up.”

Giuseppe owns the cafe.  He’s not a bad sort, but he runs a business, not a charity and has no time for stories. He rules the kitchen. His wife Ariane sets the tables with bright tablecloths and flowers. Today is sticks covered in tiny pink flowers. She also picked out the flatware, a vague sort of industrial Wedgewood, blue over white. Ariane works the counter, filling coffe cups, smiling, gossiping. Her eyes follow me to my first table.

“My name is Colette, what can I get you for breakfast?”

The girl is me, wearing new clothes, new shoes, but five years younger. The hair is longer, the makeup sparse. But we are one. Our eyes are shining. Our lips are smiling. Our hand is heavy with a slender band of gold. The boy orders.

“Coffee, two cups. And a croissant.”

“I don’t think I could eat a thing. I’m too excited.”

“Coming right up.”

The boy’s hands move in the air between them, confident, aggressive, folding the world to fit their dreams, folding the girl to fit his hunger.

“Coffee, two. Croissant,” I call at the pass-through window. He is going to steal her into a cheap apartment and build walls layered with shame and love and guilt and blood so she can never leave. He can though. He can leave a garish pillow virginal on their mattress. He can leave the stone of the fruit.

“Take care of it,” he said. I refused. He walked out.

“Colette. Coffee.”

I take the empty cups and saucers and spoons to the table where heads are bowed, barely touching, whispering, lying.

“Coffee.”

I set the cups down hard, shaking water from the bowl of flowering branches. The boy and girl startle. Ariane stares. I pour the coffee, smiling. The croissant is on the counter, fresh, steaming. I walk back to it.

Ariane rests her hand on my arm as I reach for the plate.

“He is not Jesse. Let them be happy.”

Hot tears hit my eyes and everything softens and melds like a Cezanne. The little blossoms run together and dance upward along the branches, miniature bushes ablaze with pale fire. He is not Jesse.

I turn to wipe my eyes. Giuseppe is at the window, watching. Ariane is at my side. When I turn back, the table is empty, the coffee untouched, spoons crossed. Under the boy’s cup, a tip large enough for a week’s groceries.