Our Table.

Source: A short story from my old-ish blog.

That was our table. All shiny and red and exciting but if you looked closely, you would see the cheap plastic falling apart in the corners, one of the legs was wobbly and it was placed close to the door. I remember feeling annoyed at the blast of cold air that would hit our face when someone walked into the café. Come to think of it, the table was much like you and me. But, it was our table and that was all that mattered to me in those days. I can’t really remember why we picked that particular table on our first date. We just did and after that, that drafty old corner became ours. Do you remember that you touched me first sitting at that very table? You sort of sneaked your hand to pick up the plate and when your fingers grazed mine, you let them remain there for a moment before drawing them away. I remember the silent blush that rose up your cheeks when that happened. But, we were just sixteen then. What did we know of love really?...

When, two years later, you produced a tiny velvet box and placed it quietly on the red table, you should have heard my heart pound. My fingers shook as I took the box and glanced upon the tiniest but prettiest diamond ring I had ever seen. I said yes and at that moment, the table sort of wobbled and we had laughed. Oh! How we had laughed! You had tears in your eyes and for a few seconds there I couldn’t tell if you were laughing or crying with joy.

I remember coming there alone just once. Two days before Charlie was born. We had a huge row over something – it had seemed so important then but I can’t even remember what it was about now. The waiter had looked at me questioningly – how come I was alone? I ignored him and ordered for two by mistake and then corrected myself. I did not touch my food that day. Every time the cold air hit my face, I would look up to see if you had followed me to our table to say you are sorry. But, you didn’t come. Finally, I rose to leave and opened the door and there you stood with a huge bouquet of daisies. The waiter grinned at me and showed me a thumbs up sign. How could I not forgive you? You never gave me a chance to stay angry at you long enough. And now, I can’t even recall those arguments so I can make myself miss you a little bit less. I hate you for that. If you offered me a bouquet of daisies today, I would refuse. I want you not those damned daisies, don’t you understand? I want you with me so I can live.

Nobody told me death would be like this. You didn’t tell me you were planning to die on me and take my life with you. Or I wouldn’t have sat there with you on that first date. I wouldn’t have accepted that tiny diamond ring. Or the daisies.

Why does it feel like this all the time? As if time had stood still but I am still waiting at this table expecting you to appear any time and make a silly face at me, make me laugh. Cry. Live again? I have not come here since you left. But today, I am here. There is no one at our table. Just an abandoned newspaper fluttering now and then.