'The Leaving (10)'

I guess we can start all over again if there is a fire.

I stood beside my car thinking about it. About how different we are now. And if you've forgiven me. How can one ever tell just from a phone conversation? We talked about what seemed to be a world of resignations. You had just tendered your letter while I am still considering if I should stay. "Eleven animals leaving the zoo!" someone mentioned this morning at work. It all boils down to pros and cons I said. Pros and cons which I am still weighing. What makes us risk the comfort that we have? For some of us, we begin falling the moment we think of leaving. We fall, slaves to our own inherent inertia.

There were too many clouds in the sky tonight. I cannot remember the last time we saw the stars together; cannot remember, if we ever did. I smiled: it didn't matter; I could see you falling fast asleep, tucked away in your seat. I had searched frantically in my room this morning for that watch you gave me on my seventeenth birthday (time just seems to go by faster when I'm not reminded of it--which was why it was lying among my books during the weekdays). It was pocketed; to be worn for our meet.

But you didn't let me see you off at the bus terminal.

"Yeah, it's better this way," I said, over the phone; unsure if my choice of words were wrong. I didn't want to pursue the matter further, even though I felt otherwise. I didn't want to tick you off on your last night here. Not with how you've spent your time here in the last couple of days. I was a putrid person for never wanting to let go when I was with you but I have long since learned. I had wanted to say: I'm sorry for who I was and what I did. Just before the goodbye. But I didn't.

I had forgotten to tell you about an Indian remedy for removing chicken pox scars by applying a mixture of lime and cucumber juice that I had read about days ago.

( _")