Every day I waited for a smile, a nod, an exchange worth more than a foam cup and some change. Recognition of our inevitable perfection.
Today you looked my way. For the briefest moment, our eyes met over the counter.
And it was… less.
I knew I never liked coffee.
Deepa is a full-time writer in India who occasionally gets to write for herself.
I found your words, steeped in bourbon, as you were when you first uttered them.
I found them strewn gracelessly near the heart you tore from my being.
Sprawled on your throne, you look surprised to see me as I offer them to you on a platter.
“Your dinner, m’lord.”
Deepa is a full-time writer in India who occasionally gets to write for herself.
“Only half a world away,” she mused. “He said he wants to see me.”
Ignoring every germ of doubt, barely even daring to breathe, she sat in the metallic cylinder that carried her through the skies to the place where he lived.
Twenty-four hours later, her phone refused to sing.
Deepa is a full-time writer who occasionally gets to write for herself.