I am eating a warm waffle streaked with chocolate sauce and dripping with melting chocolate ice-cream. I am reading Milan Kundera’s ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being‘. When I’m reading a book, one by a powerful writer, I find I’m relating my life to the characters in the story, seeing myself in the story and the story in my life.
The last but one time I saw him, I spent the night at his place. Wrapped inside of him, I murmured “I love you”. Just loud enough that he might hear it and soft enough that he might be able to pretend he didn’t. And then I fell asleep into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
I woke up to the sun caressing my face, just like it does in my room. And then suddenly I just wanted to be somewhere else. Didn’t want to hold him or make love to him, like I’ve wanted to nearly every time I saw him. I just wanted to be back in my room, stretching alone. Still, I stayed. And actually prolonged the morning till he gently sent me off so he could get to work. I didn’t want to see him again that day. Or the next. I didn’t know whether to feel good or not that we didn’t meet. So I just ended it.
I’ve spent the week alternating between feeling miserable and absolutely giddy-headed. There have been moments I absolutely crave his company, in a way I didn’t before we parted ways. And then suddenly it passes and I wonder if that was me feeling that way or something momentarily possessed me. I am insanely jealous of people who see him. And simultaneously I’m glad I’m not one of them.
Hmm. I don’t know either…. whether to call it love or hysteria.
On a more frivolous note, I got a new haircut! This is the first thing I recommend for break-ups. Not chopping off your locks per se, but a change of image. It is soul-cleansing, a break in routine, a change in the way you see yourself. And what’s more, a haircut is a philosophical metaphor….right from the cliched Here today, gone tomorrow to the very emotional experience (at least for a woman) of instantly cutting off that dead-but-very-much-cherished part of your anatomy that so much defines you….your mane.
I think it makes me look younger, 23 perhaps. Which reminds me, on my second date at Mocha, while I was waiting for him, a tee-shirt clad young thing approached me and asked me
“Would you like to participate in a model hunt?”
I smiled politely and said that modelling really wasn’t my cup of tea.
“But you can try it once” she persisted.
I looked at her wondering how to politely tell her that I thought it was disgraceful and degrading for me to be a clothes-horse, especially for someone else’s creations, not to mention parade my body around like it was the only thing I was good for. Then I spotted a loophole and asked her,
“Don’t these things have some kind of age limit?”
“Uh, yeahhh…” she paused and looked down at her clipboard.
“Participants must be under 22 years of age.” she pronounced.
I beamed at her unintended, implied compliment and said,
“There then. I’m 27.”
Hee hee hee. I can be moved by the writings of a Franco-Czech novelist but my vanity is as solid as Barbie doll’s.