hell on the heels

I told her “I love you, will you marry me”, amid her sip of hot tea, on the breezy eve just after a heavy rain (the same breeze, set my mind on a prefect romantic quotient) , in a road side tea shop on a feebly frequented road. She, being carried away by the climatically tasty hot tea, casually was about ask me to tell clearly what I told. In another fraction of seconds realizing what I had told her, she started with a smile which in following seconds turned to a bewildered look. Though her face expression, let me confused in reading her thoughts, they clearly showed even she is confused about how to react.

Wearing the same expressions in her face, she told “I’ll tell you what tomorrow”, turning her jet black eye ball’s to her watch, and before even the minimal interval required to conclude the time from the watch’s hand’s positions, she continued “I’m getting late, see you tomorrow”. With the same hurried reflex she collected her bag, left the table and started, about to run, walking away from me.

In a raised voice intended to stop her, I “Hey wait, what will you tell tomorrow”. She slowed her pace and turned towards me, but still walking in reverse with slow steps, told “the same what you told today” with a sudden broke out of heavy genuine smile in her face. She turned back and covered a few yards in running, out of a sheer excitement and took a auto that came on the way.

She had left me with a electrified sensation and made me feel as if I had won the whole world. Unable to contain that feel within me, without worrying about my onlookers, I sprang out, went to road and started punching the air, like a debut bowler do who took Sachin’s wicket.

I felt someone jolting my shoulders strongly, and when I turned my head, it was a dark room infiltrated by a moon light through the tragious windows. It was Senthil, in a disturbed voice “what went wrong with you, what the hell in your sleep made you punch me, ah!”. “Oops” I thought followed by a “Damn it was all dream”, and quickly mustered myself for the current situation, and told him, “hey sorry da, dreamed as if I got a chance to bruise my manager’s face”. With a mild laugh, patting my shoulders caringly he told, “cool da, don’t get carried by those (f-word)’ers, take them lite.”

With a slender prick of lying to him, I lay back. No one had tortured me as sweet as she is to doing me, and how better you expect me to tag her other than “hell on the heels”

cheers,

deepak p

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