Breaking up at breakfast table
I inhaled deeply, relishing how the aroma of omelette coyly mingled with the faint fragrances from our kitchen garden while gazing at the sun gently caress the parts of the sky he liked the most with a hint of playfulness.
That’s when I heard you say that things didn’t feel right between us anymore and that you wanted to break up with me in the same tone you would use to discuss which Netflix show you were planning to watch next.
I chuckled as I turned to you and transferred the toast and omelette onto your plate. I thought about how it’s dangerous for even one of them in a relationship to lose the fear of separation, for it’s the fear that keeps the romance alive. Both of us had probably become fearless a long time ago. I mean how do you stay fearful after you had held each other so dearly even when our bodies were sweaty, smelly, and sticky, only to discover that our heartbeats were totally out-of-sync, but also discovering that that out-of-sync weird tune is the only lullaby we could sleep to.
Yes, of course, we would have our bland breakfasts, spiced up only with gossip about our neighbour’s son who had eloped with his boyfriend and the weather report which read cloudy, with a possibility of mild drizzles. We would be careful to shove down our throats our usual interpretation of such a report: lay on the couch and snuggle with your partner as one listens to music and the other reads a book, your bodies intertwined, but minds far apart.
Yes, I would have to watch you strip my house of all your belongings, allow you to take away even my favourite shirt because you had worn it more than me. I might even help you pack and carry the bags to your car, them being heavy with all the unsaid affirmations and apologies accumulated over a span of two and a half years.
But even as I’d watch your car turn around the corner and disappear out of sight, I wouldn’t feel an iota of fear for I know we are meant to be.
Exactly seven years from now, you would spot me in a supermarket with my back to you, while I’m reaching up to the top shelf completely oblivious of your presence. You would call out my name. I’d know it’s you even before I turn, not because I had recognized your voice (I admit, I’ve never been much of an auditory person, neither has your voice been anything exceptional) but because none of my acquaintances are capable of recognizing me from behind nor are they capable of uttering my name with so much tenderness disguised under a flimsy see-through veil of authoritativeness.
We would exchange pleasantries and speak about trivial matters like our jobs, the economy and politics, and of course the weather, for the sake of civility. For, even though supermarkets certainly seem like a hotbed of romance, second only to libraries, they also demand civility even between or rather especially between supposedly inseparable lovers who had been separated by a sudden twist of fate.
I’d notice with a slight pang of disappointment that the day’s hot sultry weather doesn’t favour the lovers. But when my eyes would fall upon your ringless slender fingers, I’d wonder since when love was left to the whims of the weather. We would pretend to search the shelves for things we’d need to get through the month, while we had just found everything or rather the only thing we’d need for the rest of our lives. I’d glance at you through my peripheral vision, suddenly feeling envious of Time for it had touched and changed parts of you I had been missing out on for seven damn years.
You’d abandon the fake search and look into my cart. It would take you barely half a minute to figure out that I’m living alone, and suppressing a hunger that can’t be satiated by eatables.
Without another word, I would quietly replace the Maggie packets and readymade mixes, onto the shelves because I’d have already begun to mentally run through the recipes of your favourite dishes. I’d watch you stoop down, your knees giving away cracking sounds. You’d straighten up and toss a condom packet into my cart. I’d grin and give you an appropriate nod of approval. We would half walk, half jog to your car because your place would be closer to the supermarket than mine.
But yes, I know I would have to wait seven damn years for fate to bring us together in the same aisle of the supermarket, and I know that every moment of those seven years without you would be a waste of breath.
So now as I watched you eat your breakfast, with an impenetrable sense of calmness, quite uncharacteristic to a woman who had just spoken about breaking up with her partner of almost 3 years, I admitted with no trace of shame whatsoever that even though I’m a fearless being, my heart was racing and my mind was racing even quicker, plotting numerous fool-proof ways to make you stay or even make you fall in love with me all over again before you leave the breakfast table.
Image courtesy: silverblack
