Coffee, Cigarettes and Affairs

Coffee, Cigarettes and Affairs.

I

I call her as soon as my train pulls into the platform,

Insisting that we meet ASAP as it had been a year since I saw her.

She replies simply by inviting me home,

Since she had to run some errands.

(She ran a lot of errands these days, being married)

I insist; for good old time’s sake I say,

I have no time to spare I say,

I’ve been wanting to meet you I say,

I need some privacy with you away from your home I don’t say.

Her dainty self cedes to my askings like the poor thing always did,

So we decide on a time and place.

II

I order a cup of coffee for myself and start smoking,

Careful not to leave the remains anywhere near the table.

(She was under the impression that I’d quit)

Two cups and half a pack later she calls;

 I tell her that I’m seated by the rose bushes,

And stash away the remaining cigarettes.

I relax time, seeing her enter,

To take her in completely.

Her bespectacled eyes search for the rose bushes,

While I ashamedly miss the time during our youth,

When she used to wear contacts.

She finds the bushes and then me and smiles.

She walks unexcitedly, with a fading smile,

A long distance apart, measured in time,

Romancing the intermittent sunshine through the trees,

Her facial blemishes blinking so,

Like switching her past and present selves.

I breathe in the gentle sway of her hips,

Her love handles flirting with the sartorial perimeter,

Neck, impeccably gleaming till the bosom,

Ample cheeks holding withering joys,

Supple arms which used to have un-callused hands,

Whose fingers used to have long fingernails.

She reaches, I hold my chair and find ground,

And others stop hearing my heartbeat.

III

With a distant hug, she says something sweet in my ears,

Something so sweet, that she makes sure I can’t hear.

Sitting down, she orders in the voice that sings better than it speaks

But doesn’t any more.

I reply to her enquiries about my long trip,

My flight, my train, my job, my endless numbered trifles.

I ask how marriage is treating her.

She throws her head back a little,

And chuckles nervously through her perfectly flawed teeth -

If I were a bit decadent, and she not so distant,

I would have drunk from her gorgeous dimples.

IV

She foots the bill and I tip.

I learn she has to pick Ari,

Her 6-year old son, up from school.

I want to tag along I say, also that my luggage is at the cloak room.

V

Her scooter chugs through effortlessly.

I lean forward to be abused by her hair,

Smelling of lavender,

Reminding me of when she scoffed at

My romantic overtures.

She brakes and I hold her shoulders.

Her collar bone touch my fingers

And I chastise myself like ages ago,

For desiring to make mad love to her love-stowed eyes,

Tender ears, olive skin, haplessly full lips,

Ditzy laugh, delicious scorn and tasty curses.

Hope she can marry a second time,

Or have an affair off this marriage,

Not with me essentially,

But so that her face regains a genuine trite-less emotion;

Becomes what I knew of before she threw her corsage backwards.

VI

School is over.

We stand under a tree and she looks amongst the crowd,

Trying to spot her kid.

Ari sees and runs towards us, ecstatic and tired,

Lunging into my arms, saying something like:

“Papa! You’re finally back!

  But Mom! You never told he’d come to pick me up from school!”

-          Diwakar B