So Someone Pinched My Bottom Today

Just the fact that I could find thousands of pictures with guys ogling at girls but just one with the other way round speaks enough. Enough said! Now lemme stare! (Picture credit: Telegraph)

Okay, I am lying. It wasn’t pinched. It was a handful of grabbing, squeezing my butt cheek. Like it were the new-found official horn that a man had to honk in order to declare his manhood had arrived.

...and I did nothing. Don’t get me wrong. I am usually not one of those to stay quiet (Not even when asked to, sometimes!). But for that one moment, I was surprisingly warped in the speechlessness that came with an instant realization of being the ‘fairer sex’. As I regained my ground, I yelled at him in high pitch to come back, at which he turned and flashed a grin as he and his bike faded into dust. My friend walking next to me asked in a casually cautious tone, “what happened?” But her eyes revealed she was just trying to confirm what she already knew.

That evening, as I walked back home after a hard run at the park, I realized him grabbing my tushie wasn’t the worst part at all. It was when I found myself sub-consciously turning into the corner every time a bike went past me; it was when I frequently looked back to check if he’s coming again, trying to remember the faint red of his T-shirt. It was when for that ugly iota of a second, I considered the possibility that it was a wrong idea to go for a run late evening to begin with; if my pants were too snug a fit; if two girls 10 minutes away from home at 7.30 p.m is not a good move at all.

But does this mean I should grab every opportunity of doubt I get and pounce at every guy with disdain and lack of trust?

On a usual day, I am the girl who never asks for a ladies’ seat from guys sitting already. I am the girl who never screams at guys who mistakenly enter in the women’s compartment in metro. I am the girl who doesn’t create a scene the second there is an unknown touch in a crowded bus, instead trying to justify the validity of the crowd (or his intentions). Yes, I do face occasional ‘unpleasant’ encounters in between like every other woman, but that usually doesn’t deter me from believing the world needs more of the hopeful breed and less of scepticism.

And after all, what’s the alternative? To go around looking at everyone with apathy? Go all ‘feminist’ on them? Because from what I remember, feminism is not about superiority or a privileged status for women or just one sex. It strives and fights for equality of sexes, not superiority of one. And men have as much right to feel offended, vulnerable or much rather, angry. But instances like this make one question everything right to the basics- Is this really worth it?

Hours later, I was at my cousin’s with my (not so) little brother. She went to get cola for us, leaving two of us alone in the room. Before I could put a filter on my thoughts, I was already asking my brother point blank, “Have you indulged in eve-tease ever?” I could see he was a bit flustered with this kind of question coming from his elder sister.

“No, never.” “I may court girls, flirt with them if the situation permits but always within the limits of respect.”

Nodding, I was relieved. One more person to restore the balance. One less reason to lose hope. 

BEFORE WE FORGET EACH OTHER

You came, I saw, you tried to speak

It was nothing but the usual manner in which we meet

“What a pleasant surprise!”

“Oh, I was just passing by.”

An empty glass with droplets that occasionally quiver,

With whole of history and parts of broken love.

Two warm chairs. A cold room.

Us, and a curious goliathus (filled with love) between us.        

“Do you see that phosphorus sky? It reminds me of your pure naked back.”

“Staying any long? If not, I’ll cut you some slack.”

A grin escapes your mouth,

For our hatred toward each other traces the history of our love.

“Some cigarettes?”

“Oh sure!”

“Would you want a hug?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

The blistering truth shows up eventually,

And I find myself half-asking shortly,

“So. What reminded you of me after al.?”

With a laugh that comes as an afterthought,

You lift your hand mid-air only to drop it with some self-spite.

“Sometimes, I don’t even remember what you look like.”

“And yet even in those moments, you look beautiful.”

And so
Twisted amidst past and present, stuck in another attempt at a conversation

Until

I decide to risqué looking into those glowworm eyes of yours

And that very moment, realize, that time is nothing

But  

What passes between me and you.

What oozes, bleeds and exudes through us

When we’re together. And when we’re miles apart.

Why I Give Up Exercising Every 3rd Day!

For My Wildflower

So she dreams and then falls asleep,

smoothening the jagged edges of reality.

And after a dark, sulking period

when the night lovingly melts into the arms of the sun

A wildflower is born out of nowhere.

A (very) short story: One last time!

Putting him out of his misery, he called the familiar number once again,
Thinking, “Just one last time.”

While she went out yet again to check her mailbox,

Promising herself, “Just one last time.”

The love that we deserve

Late morning. Stomach is growling to get some breakfast while Shoreline Jellyfish taking her own sweet time to get up.

Little Wench: Okay, there is nothing in the kitchen. What do you guys wanna eat?

(sleepy) Shoreline Jellyfish: We need bread and butter. And since you’re the only one who’s taken a shower already, would you please be a sweetheart and go get it.?

Little Wench: Yeah, sure.

At this, Shoreline Jellyfish curls up and struggles to open her eyes.

Shoreline Jellyfish: Suno!

Little Wench: Yeah?

Shoreline Jellyfish: Now that you’re being a sweetheart, would you do me another favour?

Little Wench: Of course. What is it?

Shoreline Jellyfish: It’s a pretty morning. please thode boobs dikha do!

Wearing a blue t-shirt a little too big for her in front of a window big enough to be called an entrance, she tries to adjust the stuff around her one more time since he’s left- A half read book, a gifted summery dress with ketchup stains from lunch yesterday, a long unfinished to-do list, her old lingerie she loves and a new lip balm she’s not too fond of, that, and a clock lying next to her laptop far too lazy to show up time. It’s a perfect rainy morning!

This is Little Wench’s second morning in the new city, and after a long time she feels like herself again. While trying to finish a project, a line she read yesterday from the book kept popping up in her head to mull over. “Charlie, we all accept the love we think we deserve.”

It’s from a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower she’s reading currently that was gifted to the Shoreline Jellyfish by her then boyfriend. Penned by Stephen Chbosky, it has a rather kitschy appeal in the first look itself apart from having Emma Watson on its cover page from the movie adaptation. Yes, that same movie!

As introspective as Charlie is, and as much as he grows with the story; this is hands down the best piece of wisdom he receives within first 25 pages of the book. But can you really measure how much love are you worthy of? And if you can, how do you really know the love you have (or you think you do) is actually your real worth?

 “When I was a kid,” Wench started telling the inquisitive Kuala, “I used to have a separate box where I used to keep all things I got for myself but never used. Reason? I found them too pretty for myself. And so, the pretty earrings mom got me, or the fancy top I bought last summer, or that lovely boy’s lovely handmade cards, all found refuge in that box. Something you so want to have, but not something you think you deserve.” The box may have got lost somewhere in the storage room, but the idea still hasn’t.

We all create this fun-filled, spectacular life frames for ourselves encompassing every quintessential ingredient behind the supposed recipe of being happy- we hang out with the cool crowd, listen to some amazing music that we like (or have seen people liking), we attend some great get-togethers on weekends or have intense discussion about the last book we read that changed your life.

But at the same time, simultaneously, you find yourself fine-tuning every now and then. Whether it’s showing how you like that band a little more than you actually do or picking up that occasional smoke because the party has moved from the table to the smoke room; whether it’s bombastically agreeing with your colleague about that sushi you tried but in reality, played with it more than you could eat or subconsciously letting someone treat you in a way that just isn’t you because well, you like (or worse, love) them.

A week later, somewhere around 3 am, Wench gets to relive this feeling. She’s watching the movie version of the book with her new city’s favourite and a now-cold slice of pizza. She is buzzed with how equally great movie adaptations of great books can be, if treated right…and then the tunnel scene happens.

The scene starts at a fast pace as they enter the tunnel driving together. The wind is unabashed and at the same time caressing Sam as she decides to stand on her open truck. The music merges with the setting, the characters and with you. And you are with people you love, people who know the real you, the weird you, and people who love you for it. And there Wench had her moment of epiphany.

As hard as it sounds to believe, your worth is much more than those approving nods, those frequent self-doubts and definitely more than those clichéd moments where you ‘need’ to participate because you’d be obviously weird if you didn’t.

As for deserving the love, Wench always has the option to fall back upon cheesecakes and clove mix until it’s figured.

A secret letter from the madwoman

Elsewhere:

This is where I want to be.

Nowhere,

Is the place where there are no traces of you.

The History Museum

Isn’t that where you’re supposed to live.?

Abu Parvat-

Does that still seem ‘romantic’ to you.?

Under the flyover!

Quite a fancy choice, I say.

German classes & unpaid bus rides

Paper planes and Chloroform scented hair(s)

Unsaid hellos and overused goodbyes

Are we cast in a black & white movie.?

Ghost!

Prolly that’s what you are.

Ghost of Doubt.?

No, you are real-er than reality sometimes.

Chocolates or letters.?

Go figure!

Elsewhere:

This is where I am.

Image courtesy: Makeupandbeautyhome.com

That resignation letter: The how/why/why not of quitting your job

“So how exactly is Hoegarden different from Edinger?”

“Would you like to taste it first before you place your order?”

“Oh, that would be just perfect! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Actually, yes. Please tell me, what color do you think is this pyjama..err..These pants I’m wearing? Crème, right?”

“Urmm.. the pyjama is white. Ma’am.”

Sarcastic I-told-you-so laughter in the background.

“Oh damn it! I bought this pyjama and I know it’s crème, not white. Also, it’s not a pyjama but a classic, comfy pair of pants that happen to be a little…well, comfortable.”

I recently found myself having this wonderful conversation with my dear friend Dory Fish and a waiter at The Beer Café. On a Monday. On a lovely, rather balmy 12 o’ clock Monday afternoon. But wait, there is something off with this storyline….where are your Monday blues? And where is your patience-trying manager asking you to (re)submit that report you finished on Friday and most importantly, why is your new diet chart/to-do list/no online-shopping sticker not staring at you from your desk board anymore?

Life is simpler happier since Little Wench decided to stop putting herself through a rather monotonous 10-6 routine doing things she wished were done smarter and wondering why punching some colleagues in office for being so stupid was not a legit thing. In short, I put my papers at work almost two months back.

Quitting your job. Easier said than done. Quitting your job. Coming around to acting upon your gut and throwing away your security, staple social circle and approaching fat bonus. Quitting your job. Not so much a pretty thing once the honeymoon phase wears off.

This boy wanted to be Vegeta (Dragon Ball Z), Boxer, Jet fighter pilot and an actor among countless other things as a kid! 

At some point, we all (yes, I am talking about us twenty-somethings) think/dream/talk about quitting our mundane job to go for that dream job/dream vacation or that much-planned entrepreneurship we have always talked so passionately about. But how many of us actually go for it? And why, despite how ‘cool’ our job profile is, we’re not happy with what our ‘job’ is.?

When I decided to put my papers, it was no Eureka moment for me. It was a moment of release. My office took two days to respond, two weeks to agree and a rather awkward speech from me at the farewell pizza party before giving me my last day at office. But then, break-ups are always awkward, aren’t they?

You tell repeat it to yourself how things are in control and this is just an amicable, professional decision, but eventually, it boils down to the same feeling like saying, “Hey, you know what, I tried. But this, whatever this is between us, is not working out somehow!”

The conversations hands down remain one of the most amusing parts of taking a break (apart from the initial sleep-eat-sleep routine, of course). For a good part, most of my conversations with friends had bits and pieces like this-

“Hey!”

“Oh, so you quit!”

“Congratulations!”

“Oh, so you did not switch. You quit!”

“But WHY?!!”

“What? Because it sucked?” “Okay.”

Since childhood, we study, prepare, compete with an urgency to grow up- to be what we would really want to be, that one thing that really pushes the button for you. And then, somewhere in the middle of it, we find ourselves wondering while nodding at another conference room meeting how smoothly that ambition reduced into a means of paying (lot of) bills.

But who is to blame! After all, who wants to ‘appear’ clueless to his already working friend circle? Who wants to think twice before buying that third round of beer every weekend? Who wants to think every morning afresh on the things to be done? And God forbid, who wants to answer the questions parents come up with, those that add the much needed pickle to your unemployed life.

This friend wanted to be a 'Soldier'. I love soldiers.

Situation 1:

Parent 1: So, what are your plans now?

Situation 2:

Parent 2: When are you going to get serious about your career after all?

Situation 3:

Has to be mom: Oh, there is this really nice guy XYZ aunty knows about.

*All above can be asked at any time from having breakfast to watching a movie to a response for “Good Morning!”

Was a bully. Wanted to be teacher, actress, gypsy and waitress.

We all need a sense of belonging. And more than anything, we need our jobs for giving us that. Sometimes, I get fidgety on a weekday morning knowing I have nowhere to get late for. Sometimes, a project I take up doesn’t pay me anything compared to my otherwise salary. Sometimes, I feel guilty for putting my family in a spot with my decisions. Sometimes, I get a little uncomfortable during a conversation when my friends go on and on about how their office lives or the crazy lunch breaks. Sometimes, I can’t tell if I am a good writer and don’t believe just as much in my ‘quitting everything and doing your thing’ plan.

But then, I realise that I get to pick my work and my days to work too. I realise I am free of the routine I so abhorred once. I realise that even if I earn lesser now, the expenses are far lesser. Heck, I realise I don’t have to wait for the weekend to find time to bake a cake. I realise that I can nonchalantly make travel plans and even fulfill my fantasy of ‘be all at once’ to an extent. And most of all, I realise that I’ve never been as conscious of doing (Or not doing) anything before.

Most interesting: This sweet junior wanted to be Sachin Tendulkar. And Shahrukh Khan.

And as I raise the toast of this sweet, peach-pepper flavoured wine, I am not shaming those who follow a routine or are successfully celebrating third anniversary at their workplace; neither am I promoting getting reckless and sitting at home. I am here raising a toast to doing knowing what the heart wants, and then doing it too.

I dream of being in weird places left by my group/train/fellow backpackers. I dream travelling to these exotic places where I have a meet up fixed with the Crazy Eyed Turtle and I can’t find him. I dream of running errands at a job where the office is set up on a vast sea shore.

Practical.? No. Self-pleasing.? Yes. Call me crazy, but do you ever stop loving ice cream even when you know every scoop is going to only add on to your waist?

You got it? Good? Good.

This one, Ah, obviously, Superman!

Why you NO hangout with me in Hauz Khas.?

I

It is the place where things in contradiction come together to have a fleeting love affair. It is easily the most posh 'village' you could ever find. People smoke. People smoke up. People cuddle. People chat up. People jog on the beaten tracks, trying to beat their last record. People saunter holding hands pushing every second to its maximum duration.

II

Hauz Khas Fort: It is the unofficial hub of numerous band practices and countless love stories every few steps. Quietly embracing Sufi, Rock or even Indie-pop together; the old, humble Hauz Khas Fort practically lives as many dreams as each of the members in those bands, all of those couples.

Trying to find the right note with them. Trying to have their love, their music etched onto the partly ruined walls here.

A cat just has nine lives to live.

III

“But why do I always have to go along with someone or to meet someone? What’s wrong with wanting to go hangout by yourself?” complained Little Wench.

“Why do you always have to ask questions that have no answers?” fretted her mother.

As she passes the barricade, an impish grin fights its way to her lips as Little Wench tries rather hard to suppress it. This is not the first time she’s coming here, after all. She’s been here on a date. She’s covered an interview here.  She’s bunked office to just be here. She’s worked here. Heck, she’s even had a life-is-finished day here. So today, deciding to spend some time with Hauz Khas, herself and a rustic copy of The Journals of Sylvia Plath on a last minute whim doesn’t sound fancy at all. And yet, she’s excited.

“Walking is too much madam. You so thin! Give me only Rs. 40 and I will take you to Hauz Khas village in a jiffy.”

IV

I see this dog having claimed what’s possibly the best spot in the entire fort/lake area. It’s a beautiful pedestal just beyond the iron-rod boundary set for ‘common’ people. It’s an olive-sized spot facing the warm sunshine, balmy lake and a sharp edge on a substantial height.

And the dog is there. His indifference is appealing to the point of becoming a masochist. Just for that instant when you gaze at him, waiting to be ignored. People amusingly walk past him; photographers try to find their ‘the shot’ in him. And he overlooks them all. Like a dude!

V

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“What is best to visit/do in hauz khas?” *pause* “I am a tourist, you see.”

“Ermm. You really wanna know?”

“Yeah, of course!”

"Well, I suppose I could tell you a couple of things; like how Elma’s Bakery, one of the most popular eateries is to be savoured for its interiors and crockery, not the menu. Or how despite the quality food, the best thing about Naivedyam still remains the free rasam drink ritual as soon as you settle down."

"Or how not many people like to visit/maintain the sanctity of the beautiful-in-ruins Hauz Khas Fort accommodating the entire lake; but are more than willing to pay overpriced rates for usual menu at a restaurant having a section ‘facing the lake’. Or rather, a tiny part of it."

"I could also show you that it’s easy to spot a self-contained, happy junkie and a tight-holding-by-the-waist, happy couple in the same blink of the eye. How the dogs here know more than they show. How food here is some of the most soul-fulfilling activities (yes, it’s more of an activity here). But I would rather tell you to go ahead and find out for yourself."

For one main reason why you keep coming back to Hauz is because it offers a unique piece of its own to you. And to each of its visitors.

A new concept cafe to try while on your way back from Hauz Khas Village!

Their feedback wall! :-)

VI

You wouldn’t even notice that construction worker until you look too closely. A highly ordinary, reedy body rhythming with the circular motion he was making on the wall using his heavily tanned left hand, while balancing on the conspicuously wobbly stool. He’s humming a folk tune as he pastes the freshly prepared pastel coloured cement solution his wife is holding standing next to him.

Adjusting her ghunghat every now and then while holding the stool in between every time it shakes a little. Next to her, stands their child, hardly 3 years of age. Holding her pallu, the kid stands there while watching bunch of kids play in the heap of sand and cement couple of steps away. He has a bandage tied on his forehead, with blood stains on one side.

How did the child get hurt? Is this a frequent occurrence whilst at the site? Do they pay the wife too for spending half her day working with him or is that a complimentary service for the contractor? Does the family live here as well? If they do, is this a safe environment for the child? But then, can they afford to even think about it?

The wall is not even half done as yet.

...And thus said she, "Yada Yada Yada"

Vanilla is a very, very, understated and long ignored flavor.

Blue is an overused colour.

No, not every girl likes pink.

Palaces are overrated. So is being polite, sometimes.  

From what I read, a professional snuggler easily earns up to $60 an hour. Note to self- Must put that as a fall-back career option.

Vikas Khanna is (finally) one Indian chef who should make more and more appearances on TV.

Talking about food, dosa is not dosa. It’s Do (like ‘two’ in Hindi) + sa, apparently.

Hot water bath is pure bliss. And a permanent fix for all things temporary.

The only ‘good’ thing that comes out of extreme anxiety about anything is you chumming sooner than soon. So whatever that is, just don’t sweat over it. (I don’t know what good comes out of this for guys though. But then, I am yet to come across a guy having anxiety attack over things in the first place).

No matter how many times you do it, getting up in the morning remains one of the most difficult things to do.

Virat Kohli looks good. And dashing. But wait, only until he opens his mouth! #TypicalDelhiBuoyMoment

You tend to lose weight instead of piling on when you take a break and stay at home. (Just me.?)

YOLO. Except for, well, us Hindus! (Edit: Apparently, Buddhists too!)

Defenestration is a legit word. And awesome too!

Ellen DeGeneres is one hell of a cool woman. And no, it has nothing to do with her recent show at Oscars.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZisWjdjs-gM- makes life good. Instantly.

p.s: A deroute but another example of how cool she is!

Helping someone in the middle of your busy routine makes you feel accomplished in a strange way at the end of the day.

Putting a poster on your FB wall about how a true love/best boyfriend/perfect relationship should be (or should not be) will NOT get you any of that. Also, putting ‘LOL’ is not going to save your emoticon any laugh lines. So you might as well use that.

Cinnamon can be eaten, hidden in the pockets or applied all over the face for its sheer fragrance. Heavenly! (Again, just me.?)

 Ahista Ahista remains the only movie album composed by Himesh Reshammiya where he deserves every iota of his otherwise acclaim.

For the good of mankind, guys like George Clooney exist. For the hopelessness of (wo)mankind, so does Adam Levine!

Self-talking is the best way to self-preservation.

This is a very sad attempt to do something fun (Read ‘avoid finishing up articles that are to be submitted tomorrow morning’) and finally manage a post here after a lazy, shameful absence of…wait, how long has it been.?

Sincerely 

Little Wench

The Last Gift

And she held her breath as his lips curled into what looked like beginning to an the answer, her answer, an answer she had held on for far too long than she could afford to. 

“Maggie!” came to life as he spoke her name aloud. Every time. All he ever said.

And yet she was finally happy. She had an answer. She leaned forward to have her their last kiss, almost sucking the soul (if he still had one) out of his body. 

With a belief that he could still save both of them…

Verisimilitude (Is that a UFO.?)

Time: Dusk

Venue: Metro station (Take any!)

Participants: Stable Nerd and the Little Wench

Situation: Sitting on the bench small raise next to the railings

Nerd: You know this was the 6^th metro we just missed?

Wench: *without looking* Were you counting.?

Nerd: I don’t know.

5 minutes of silence later...

Nerd: So what have you been doing off late? What’s up?

Wench: *looking at another metro passing by* Don’t you think you’re a little too late to ask me that now.?

Nerd: I don’t know.

7 minutes later…

Wench: *intently looks at him* Nerd, tell me something interesting. Something nice!

Nerd: Urmm..okay. Do you know how touch screen phones work?

Wench: No, tell me.

Nerd: See, so it’s a simple underlying theory. It’s basically…

Wench: When exactly are you going to ask me out.?

Nerd: What?

Wench *smilingly* Do you want me to repeat the question.?

Nerd: No, no. Well, to that, I don’t know.

Wench: Okay.

3 minutes of silence later…

Nerd: Why would you even ask me such a question?

Wench: Well, it looks like it. You have that nervous-inquisitive look on your face when around.

Nerd: So you want me to ask you out?

Wench: Nope.

Nerd: Then why would you ask such a question?

Wench: Oh, I was curious.  

p.s: What is Little Wench's 2nd most favourite thing after hope? Dreams!

The Friend You Took For Granted

“No, I will not go for his dinner invitation. Not even if he puts up my plate the usual way he does”, “How dare he call me now, only three days before to break the news!”, she repeats in her head for one more time as stations pass by her. She’s in the jungle’s fanciest ride till date and yet still ‘trying’ to like it. But the kid in front of her is assuring with his unadulterated grin. Like he also shares the secret. Her secret. Their secret.

She tries to remember what was the moment that turned Little Wench and Old-World Sloth into friends. The common factor was a guy she hated and he loved. Soon, they were neighbours and colleagues who smirked at each other’s romances (or the lack of it) and had dinner together.

There was a new-found delight in taking shots at each other which gave grave concerns a casual air. In the Concrete City, where both of them were outsiders, he was the constant companion she never invited but inevitably celebrated every occasion/attended any party with.

She snarled at how he was a housewife-in-prep and he came to pack her up to his place when her apartment became a boat with a hole. She tricked him into giving occasional foot massages and he stayed up entire night talking to his fiancé when she needed to pull off an all-nighter for that office report. He smelled, loved and smelled her hair often and in return, she called him a creepy guy whenever she could.

His dinner invitation to her included him mixing rice and gravy Andhra style with his hands and making small balls of it, decorated on the outline of the plate. And she ate heartily with a boasting smirk and hidden delight. She, in turn, taught him how to imagine apple juice like it is flavoured wine during crisis and actually get high on it!

But for the love of God, she still can’t remember that moment. What she can remember is that Old-World Sloth is now married and about to become a doting father. The Old-World Sloth hasn’t shared a smoke with her in a long time. And the Old-World Sloth is now leaving the city for good.

When the Wench wakes up next morning, there is this sudden urge bubbling in her. Thanks to the wild gooseberries from Jungle she loves, things hit her late. She frantically searches for her eternally damned phone, calls him, and tells him she’s going to come to the Concrete City to see him. Even if it’s just a 10-minute thing. He leaves tomorrow and has a lot on his hands. But she isn’t listening; but he still invites.

The day is ending very slowly. “What would I say when I see him? What would I do if he panics? What could we eat together?” Fretting, she tells herself to shut up when there’s a call just when she’s about to leave.

Old world: Dude, werrr are you?

Wench: Just about to start.? Why were you not answering my call? I was going to check if chocolate is fine or wine.

Old World: Actually, I got stuck. Something needed to be taken care of. And urmm, I am running terribly behind time right now.

Wench: Oh, you’re really short on time?

Old World: No, actually yes. I would love to meet you but not like this. But anyway, tell me what time do you reach here?

Wench: You know what, let’s drop it. It would only get more hectic for you. And anyway, not like I was dying to see you. I will see you some other time soon.

Old World: You do know there would be no ‘soon’ again?

Wench: Yes. But saying soon sounds better.

Old World: I will call you once I reach my new home.

Wench: Of course. Take care, creepy guy.

As she hurriedly hangs up, she realizes she’s choking with something tangible in her throat. And something warm and gushing in her eyes.

Friends, no matter how predictable, annoying or routine they become; are friends and should be treated as nothing less than that. They may not be the one who hold your hand at the aisle or serve you dinner when you get home tired but they absolutely are a large part of what makes you ‘you’.

With a now-free hour to kill at her disposal, she packs her bag and heads to the popcorn guy.

*Just for this post, Little Wench is not Little Wench but Eva Mendes.