Table for One

I have become an island. Sure, it's a scenic place, and there are ferrys at regular intervals. But the weather is unpredictable around these here parts and when my temper is particularly torrential, not too many people are willing to ride that lonely, rocking boat with the creepy old one-eyed oarsman to get across.

I don't mind it. I can stand in queues alone even when my iPod battery has died. I can drive alone, and I can take walks alone. I can drink coffee alone and I can drink whiskey alone. If I was the kind of person who smoked, I would be the kind of person who always had her own lighter and never bummed cigarettes off anyone. I can think alone. Cocktails and reservations - I can make them for one. I can tell myself my butt doesn't look big in that dress. I can buy myself pretty things and ice cream on a bad day. I can buy myself pretty things and champagne on a good day. I can finish my own popcorn at a movie, and I can hold doors open. I can't bake alone - but then again, I can't bake at all. I can keep my own secrets. I can go to the supermarket alone and buy ten boxes of sugar coated cereal instead of sensible things. I can be far too practical to be lonely. I prefer the singularity.

I have learnt to be alone. I only hope it was a choice.

Puzzling Pieces

You flit in and out of my mind,
and I flit in and out of love with you.
Oh, you've been so unkind,
and I know I have too.

This delicate dance,
it has to end.
There is no hope, and not a chance -
for you and I will neither sway nor bend.

I can't seem to hold on to you,
but don't blame me - neither can you pull away.
Without you, all I ever feel is blue
but with you, I can no longer stay.

You kiss my lips,
with goodbyes you never mean.
And I forgive your mistakes and slips,
but we can't always be the in-between.

So today, I'll pack up my things,
Take my boxes, my big heart and my pointed wit,
Maybe tomorrow we will be more than one of those flings
Maybe tomorrow, just maybe, we will fit.

The Ghost of You

Sometimes, I catch myself staring into the endless blue,
and seeing only you.
Sometimes, I listen to the radio for too long,
and hear your voice say how much you hate this song.

Sometimes, I pour my whiskey,
and think of how you love tea.
Sometimes, when it rains and I'm soaked to the bone,
I hope that you are not alone.

Sometimes, when I am in a crowd,
I hear your laugh, especially loud.
Sometimes, when I find myself asleep on the floor,
I find comfort in remembering that you snore.

Sometimes, I wonder who I am,
and if you were the lion or the lamb.
Sometimes, I think about when things got tough,
and I know I should have called your bluff.

Sometimes, when I go off track,
In a moment, it all comes rushing back.
Sometimes - even the times I'm just making toast,
You sneak up on me, and I am overcome by your ghost.

Coffee and Cigarettes

She occupied the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. Although, to be honest, both 'occupied' and 'restaurant' would be a rather deceptive choice of words. Her petite, nervous frame barely took up any of the ample space offered by the large, tattered sofa; and this place - with its mildewed walls and crooked picture frames - could hardly be called a restaurant.

Her appearance was, in a word, careless. Her choice of clothing was a haphazard assembly. Her hair was seemingly reluctantly held in place by a pencil struck through the loose bun of curls at the nape of her neck. The fingers of one hand absentmindedly fidgeted with the fraying edge of the tablecloth. The watery coffee, long cold, stood at the forlorn edge of the table; It was merely an excuse to remain seated and keep the nosy waiters and their questions at bay.

She scribbled on the menu card, each doodle flirting with the idea of completion, of being more than a half finished sketch of the coffee cup or the curtains or the lonely old owner of the restaurant…but no. She never could finish what she started.

Behind the glazed over eyes, her mind reeled with questions. "How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "

The door creaked open to let in a young man, handsome and impeccably dressed. He paused for a moment and took in his surroundings, but he was far too polite to let what he thought of the place flash across his face for more than a split second. He decidedly made his way to the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. He unbuttoned his expensive blazer - finest Italian cut, no doubt - and took a seat opposite her. After a cursory glance at the menu, he ordered an espresso (strong, please) and a tossed salad (dressing on the side, no tomatoes, thank you). He unfolded a newspaper and made his way through the developments of the day. Front page, local news, business, international, skipped the comics, and ended with sports. He drank his lukewarm and weak coffee in silence. He picked at the salad for a few minutes before asking for the cheque.

He deposited the money for his meal along with what most would deem a generous tip, thanked the waiters and promised to visit again, buttoned his blazer and made his way out onto the street. After the appropriate amount of time and hesitation, she followed. A chauffeur driven car pulled up to the curb. He held the door open for her, and she got in.

"Lovely weather," he said, after a few minutes.
"It is", came the stony reply.
"You know it took me over 4 hours to find you? We looked everywhere. The servants have interrogated every shopkeeper on the high street about your whereabouts. We even called your father."
"Hmmm."
"I should have known to look for you here. Darling, I know it's a quaint little place and special to you…I only remember it because it's where I first met you - to discuss having your paintings on show at the gallery…but it is not somewhere a lady of your standing should be seen! You are no more the poor artist, you are the gallery owner's wife! It is not befitting of you to be seen in the places you used to haunt when you could afford no better! Now, for heaven's sake, get out of those old clothes - the servants have picked up your dress for the ball tonight, but you need to call mother about the flower arrangements…."

She looked out the window.
"How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "

Nana & Nani

My memories of this place are safe in the bubble wrap of time and distance. In my eyes there are no cracks in the crown moulding, the yellowing paint is white, the now threadbare rug is still plush, the fraying lace curtains look no less decadent than they did 15 years ago and I still hear the cuckoo clock that nobody has found the time to wind. Most of all, my grandparents are still young.

My feet skip nimbly over the slew of medical paraphernalia attached to their big comfortable bed when I land myself squarely in the middle of it. My eyes somehow glaze over the mountains of prescriptions littering the bedside table. My mind pretends not to notice how their hands tremble when I hold them in mine.

Until this year's visit, I was scared. Petrified. I refused to acknowledge it. Nothing was taking them away from me, especially not this proletarian concept of Old Age. But life has a funny way of trapping you in a tiny room with your worst fears until the two of you talk things out and part ways with a mutual respect. So they both fell ill. Unreasonably ill. Why? Not because they weren't eating all their vegetables, not because they'd smoked themselves into cancer, not because of any fault or neglect on their part. Just because they were old.

So this year, I saw them as they were - tissue-paper skin, porcelain bones, salt and pepper hair. They weren't all that different. I'm not claiming that they have maintained the same mental and physical agility - but they are the same on the inside. They are not blighted with bitterness - there is no vitriol in their speaking or thinking.

What does it matter that my grandfather now has to lie down while playing teen pati with me, what does it matter that my grandmother forgets that story of Krishna and the Gopis half way, what does it matter that they now tire after walks around the house rather than walks around the building. What matters is that they still love us, they still want to do all these things with us.

If I ever do get to being old, that's how I want to do it. Fighting what I can but accepting what I must.

Easy Come, Easy Go

I'm very good at losing things - singular earrings, multiple cell phones, other people's belongings, my train of thought, the list is endless. I misplace my mind with a refreshing regularity. Though that is true, it's not the kind of thing I want to talk/type about losing today; I'm also rather good at losing people. This is rather bad, I gather.

I don't know whether it's sheer carelessness on my part, disregard for their feelings, my self admitted apathy and fear of confrontation, the fact that I have the attention span of a gnat or maybe just me, being a bad person. As much as I detest this conclusion, I've ruled out the possibility of a It's-Not-Me-It's-You scenario. This has happened far too often. I know this is harping on the selfishness thang I had going a few posts ago, but hey, forgive me if I'm identifying a major character flaw I've been carrying around like a half eaten sandwich in your backpack that went unnoticed for weeks until the stench got so bad that nobody wanted to sit next to you anymore, not even the weird kid who still eats paste and only has self drawn chalk-figures for friends. Yeah, not even her. (See, train of thought successfully lost)

I think about them a lot. I replay and rewind everything in my mind a thousand times, retrace my steps to find where I lost them. I wish I could talk to them. I don't want them to belong to someone else, even if they are more deserving of them. I want them back.

I wish there was a sort of Lost & Found box for people. Where you could just saunter on in, look at the array of metaphorical equivalents of single earrings, pick and choose who you want back and leave the rest for the Salvation Army. Because these are things I'll never say out loud - a) I'm sorry b) I miss you c) I want you back and d) you hurt me when you left.

For future reference, when I say 'Leave, see if I care' I mean 'I want you to stay, I'm sorry, you'll hurt me if you go and I'll miss you sorely'.

Ode to a Sandwich

Welcome to November. It's the fourth, and I am very proud to announce that I have just finished making the most unsuccessful sandwich in living memory. I should win a prize. It's a shame I didn't take a photo of it before it departed this world...

I was desperate for some food, and so drifted over to the fridge in search of sustenance. We have:

• A marmalade jar, empty save a smearing of transparent orange/yellow goo.
• Two cheese spread cartons, empty-ish and turning slightly brown at the edges
• A bottle of salsa, now much more pungent that the Mexicans originally intended, I'm willing to bet.
• Some margarine, now far too yellow to possibly benefit your cholesterol levels.
• Many miscellaneous items encased in various brands of plastic Tupperware.
• Fresh brown bread- a bloody miracle.
• A pack of butter, hardened to the consistency of cheese by the excessive arctic conditions at the very back of said refrigerator.
• Very little else.

Why do people choose to place empty items back into the fridge?! I cannot envisage the circumstances under which I would ever be in dire need of a slightly chilled jar of no marmalade.

Desperate for some form of gastronomic satisfaction, I opted for the simple fresh-brown-bread and hard-butter combo. Have you ever tried spreading hard butter onto soft bread? Oh wait. That's right. You can't.

Folklore dictates that hard butter can be made soft by employing that cunning scientific discipline known as 'mashing': the butter is gradually warmed against the side of its carton through repeated knife-manipulation. However, there is a glaring flaw in my situation: butter sits in a flimsy paper/foil crap pack. So butter is placed cold and hard onto bread, refusing to lie down like morning glory. A feeling of utter inadequacy embraces you as these lumps of fat mock your dismal sandwich making abilities. Last effort is a vigorous chopping technique. Gaping holes appear in bread- not exactly what I had in mind- butter hasn't budged. Bread is thrust across the kitchen in a hissy fit.

I am still hungry.