MOCKINGBIRD

Dedicated to the pathetic human mockingbirds whose jokes aren't really funny.

I hear you, in another voice, sing.
There you're standing, plain, small.
I pity you! Mocking is the only thing
You could do best, after all!

Poor thing, you can't be real or original.
You can't say things that aren't taught.
Your talents, apart from mimicking, are nil,
Zip, nada, zero, naught!

You're so disgusting, so worthless!
You're so full of your sickening self.
You're so pathetic, truly full of nothingness!
Just go, listen to yourself!

Go, find yourself someone stupid to mock.
Go, find someone else, to echo, imitate,
Repeat, imitate, before you get socked!
Your jokes aren't all that great!

You tease, you make fun of people,
Your sense of humor sucks, absolutely.
With others, you might cause quite a ripple,
But don't think you'll get me!

DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME

Dedicated to the guy who could only be either my "The One" or my brother.

"He's probably gay!" I hissed to my friend.
She cast a thoroughly disgusted look at me. She probably thought I was a bitch (Or should I say she probably knew?). I almost caught her lips murmuring that word.
OK, so she wasn't the only one to love this supposedly-gay guy to death. Oh, no. Not even in the "er, ahem, you know" sense. Everyone just loved him. You know, like it was mandatory that everyone should love him. He was loved by all. It's as simple as that. Well, knowing this guy was loving this guy (OK, so that breakthrough of a line was plagiarized. Ever read "Love Story" by Erich Segal?).
So, where was I? Ya, she cast a thoroughly disgusted look at me. "You're probably confused, you know. You need to relax. Take a break. Take a nap." In other words, get lost. Buzz off. Go!
I sighed. "No, I'm not. Isn't it a possibility?" Why can't it be, anyway? Every guy is either straight or gay. And ya, or bisexual.
"Oh, please, get a life," she almost said. She probably thought I was the most conceited soul in all of a hundred mile radius from where I was standing. Like, if you don't understand, as if I thought every guy should fall in love with me and if he doesn't, he's gay.
No, that's not it. You know, I'm one of these plump girls (I'm not fat, and no, I'm not being defensive!) who wouldn't even try to let go of chocolate. No way. Chocolate was my anti-depressant, my staple food, my elixir. Chocolate was everything I ever got high on. And I'm one of these girls who is all virginal not because she speaks pages and pages about the virtue of virginity, but because she just hasn't met the right guy she could gift it to. And I'm also one of these girls who isn't noticed all that often by men. Well, it's true that I've got a lot that men could notice in me - like all those male protagonists in all those mushy Bollywood films notice in their respective females - but no man has ever been clever enough.
Now, why did I say that to you? Oh, yes, I remember - because I was trying to tell you, somehow, in a roundabout way, that I was not conceited. Not at all. Certainly not.
OK, more about this faceless, nameless guy we were discussing about.
He's tall (Damn, and how tall!), like I want my guy to be. He's chatty, he's funny. Especially, funny. I mean, how many genuinely funny and sweet guys could you possibly find among all those stodgy, laptop-tapping, sunglasses-wearing, mobile-messaging, program-coding-and-debugging, stuffed shirt software engineers?
It's not as if I end up liking or having a crush on every other tall, sweet, funny guy (If you were thinking I get crushy-crushy very often... much to my dismay, you're right.).
It's just that this guy is much, much older than me - there's this solid difference of twelve years, separating us like a terrible moat with crocodiles in it.
Normally, I'd never have taken this guy so seriously. For me, any guy who is older than me by more than seven years is as good as married. But no, this guy just wouldn't let me off. No, he appears in my dreams.
Well, not those ordinary, dumb dreams too. They are, well, you know, the kind of "er, ahem, you know" kind of dreams that twenty-year-old girls have a concession to frequently get.
And he uses the choicest of endearments on me. Especially me. I can't imagine him calling any other girl in our class 'Princess' (for one).
Oh, so, by the way, this guy and I are classmates. We're learning a foreign language together (I'm not learning Spanish, but I so want to learn it someday, so I'll use Spanish in my story to add to its "exoticness").
"All right," I murmured, "What shall I do?"
"Please don't be offended, hon," she said ominously, "but somehow I feel that he thinks of you as his kid-sister."
Oh, great. The oh-don't-be-so-conceited-for-god's-sake tone, again.
I sighed. "Why would I be offended, if that's the truth?" I asked slowly. "At least, I'd be something to him." Well, I must be, after all those endearments he uses on me!
I remembered the latest one of those dreams, and I shuddered.
What if he is gay, after all? Or what if he does think of me as his kid-sister and invites me to his house for Rakshabandhan and tells me to tie a horrible, scary, red thread on this wrist? What would I do about my dreams, then?
I shuddered, imperceptibly.
I cast a careless glance at my watch and realized it was well past six. In another fifteen minutes, the class would resume after our much-enjoyed, relaxing break.
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him walking towards us. That inquisitive thing, I thought to myself. He might be well into his thirties, but he was so like a little kid. A surprising surge of affection rose within me, and I smiled at him.
I just had to announce his arrival. "There he comes," I said softly.
My friend watched my face closely, carefully, and smirked. "Ya, right. He might ruffle your hair anytime now and treat you like an affectionate kid."
So much for my announcement.
I looked at him again. He was walking so slowly. There was so much of man in so little of flesh - I mean, he was in no way flabby, he had absolutely no excess flesh anywhere on his body. He was so well-constructed, well-maintained. His shirt fitted him perfectly, adding to everything that was perfect about him. And I mean, everything about him. Absolutely perfect. Heavenly to watch. Wish I could try some touching...
My friend coughed. I was startled.
Her eyes danced with mischief. OK, so she caught me staring. Big deal.
"You'll behave," I threatened, out of the corner of my mouth. "I'll shoot you, stab you, tear you apart, kill you, and murder you if you don't."
Her body shook with silent, ill-suppressed laughter. "Now, now, don't go all violent on me!"
There have been times, and there have been times when I really wish she wasn't a psychologist, and a good psychologist at that. This was turning out to be one such time. Her eyes bore into me, like she could read me, read my mind.
I realized I was probably conceited, after all. Somehow, I believed, along the way, I'd begun to expect him to like me.
I watched with my eyes widening with dawning realization with his every step bringing me closer. Oh, yes, I so wanted him to like me!

(Now, in order to cater to various audiences, I'd like to 'knife' this story into two parts - The Dream, for the eternal romantics, red roses kind of optimists, and The Nightmare, for the ever-cynical pessimists.)

THE DREAM

He came close, smiling widely at me. "Hi, beautiful ladies."
He was standing oh, so close to me.
My friend, ever the gentlewoman, presently cleared off, winking at me before doing so.
I feigned a sudden interest in my mobile phone, not knowing what to say, what to do. He looked so handsome, as he adjusted his nerdy looking glasses on the bridge of his nose. His lips were so well-shaped, and his eyes were staring, unseeing, into the distance. I wondered what he was looking at. Or rather, whom. Perhaps he liked some woman, and he was seeing her in every cloud, in the blue of the sky, and ya, all the blah blah, with all the hullabaloo of Bollywood heroes.
A surprisingly sharp, piercing emotion caught me off-guard. What was I thinking, anyway? I wondered, shocked at my reaction to my own speculations.
"Penny for your thoughts," he said, in that silky, deep voice of his.
It took me about two seconds and a half to shake myself and catch what he was saying.
"I'm not thinking," I said, quickly. "Nothing. Nothing important. You know, nothing special."
"You're wrong," he said, softly, slowly.
I looked at him, questioningly.
"There's you," he said, in a whisper of a voice, the sound waves caressing me softly, lovingly.
I blushed to the roots of my hair, much to my dismay. I couldn't meet his eyes. He thought I was special? Wow, that was something positive, at least.
He smiled, so indulgently, and suddenly I wished to God my friend wasn't a psychologist and that she didn't think that he might probably consider me as another little sister.
I concentrated fiercely on my mobile phone this time, so much so that I began to see double. I might have ended up cross-eyed if he hadn't spoken just then.
"You youngsters use a lot of the mobile phone these days."
Good, that was a general comment I could respond to, without blushing. I smiled slowly, and said,"What's with the you before the youngsters? You're not that old."
He smiled right back, his smile doing wonders to his already well-sculpted face. "Well, there's still an age difference between us that doesn't help me in understanding what's so special about text messages. I could call you up if I wanted to talk or say something. Why message?"
"Well, for one, the messages are free," I said, not knowing what else to say.
He nodded, seemingly deep in thought. "Which reminds me," he said, after a second or two, "I haven't got your phone number."
I could've jumped for joy then and there. Somehow, I managed to efficiently control my reactions and nod seriously. I recited the digits of my phone number clearly, softly, slowly.
"So, what do you think?" he said, suddenly. "What were you thinking when you said I'm not that old?"
I blushed, again. "Well, you really aren't, you know. Old, I mean. You don't even seem older than, you know, something like twenty six, or seven, or eight."
He raised an eyebrow.
I stopped saying whatever I was saying.
"Is that all?" he asked, looking at his watch.
My shoulders almost drooped in defeat. That, I asked myself, is how you deal with a golden opportunity? You could've said he's super cool. That he isn't old at all, by your standards. But no, you don't tell him any of these. You tell him he doesn't look old. Great!
It was almost time for us to go back to our classroom. We walked together, slowly. He was right next to me, so close, yet so far away, I thought to myself, poetically.
"You think twelve years isn't such a big age gap?"
Now, that was a burning question. A million-dollar question. An interesting question.
Come on, lap this opportunity up, girlie!
I injected just the right kind of shyness into my voice. "No, I don't think so," I said, without feigning the huskiness that colored my voice.
For a moment, as we looked into the depths of each others' eyes, there was no one else in that room but him, for me.
"You know what you mean by what you just said?" he asked, untold doubts darkening his eyes.
It was then that I just knew, with sheer feminine instinct, that the feelings between us was mutual, and had been so all these days, all this time.
Oh, my baby, I thought to myself. He was feeling insecure, unsure.
"I do," I said solemnly. And smiled radiantly. I saw his glance shift to the slight dimple on my cheek, and I knew he loved me.
I laughed, surprising myself with a throaty chuckle. "I see you've fallen." Am I actually flirting with him? Wow, I must have dreamed hard!
"Fallen?" He looked confused.
I played with a nimble finger on my dimple.
His lips slowly widened in an almost boyish grin. "Of course, Princess. Fallen. Head over heels. Hook, line and sinker," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. His hand slowly reached to hold mine in a tender grip.
It was the defining moment. The very moment that repeated itself millions of time, over and over, in all the most wonderful dreams I'd ever dreamed of him.
Brother? Pooh. And he'd make the lousiest homosexual.
Whoever thought my psychologist friend could be so wrong, and I could be so right?

THE NIGHTMARE

He came close, smiling widely at me. "Hi, beautiful ladies."
I smiled right back.
"Hi," I said, a sudden attack of shyness hitting me. My friend, on the other hand, was in her ever-exuberant form.
I looked at my friend, meaningfully. But she just didn't seem to take the hint.
He came closer, and ruffled my hair playfully.
I moved slightly farther from him, and put my fingers to adjust my mussed up hair. Something about his touch made me uneasy.
My friend laughed, and cast a smug, "I told you so" look. I pretended not to notice it. Well, honestly, who likes to admit the slightest defeat?
I feigned a sudden interest in my mobile phone, not knowing what to say, what to do. He looked so handsome, as he adjusted his nerdy looking glasses on the bridge of his nose. His lips were so well-shaped, and his eyes were staring, unseeing, into the distance. I wondered what he was looking at. Or rather, whom. Perhaps he liked some woman, and he was seeing her in every cloud, in the blue of the sky, and ya, all the blah blah, with all the hullabaloo of Bollywood heroes.
A surprisingly sharp, piercing emotion caught me off-guard. What was I thinking, anyway? I wondered, shocked at my reaction to my own speculations.
When I got the nerve to look up from my mobile phone, I noticed that he was standing next to my friend, and not next to me. A shaft of disappointment shot through me.
I was probably looking quite dull, thanks to the glow and excitement on my friend's face. I got back to pretending great interest in my mobile phone.
"Penny for your thoughts," he said, in that silky, deep voice of his.
It took me about two seconds and a half to shake myself and catch what he was saying.
"I'm not thinking anything," I was about to say, when I realized the question wasn't directed at me.
It was directed at my friend.
She smiled, cool and composed as always. "Nothing special."
He looked at her and smiled.
I looked at them both, questioningly.
"There's you," I heard him say to my friend, in a whisper of a voice.
My friend, quite surprisingly, blushed.
Whoa, there was probably something going on, that I didn't know about. No, correction - there's absolutely no probably about it.
I should probably clear off.
I was about to do just that, when my friend said, softly, "Don't leave; stay." Her voice sounded almost plaintive, as if she was quite affected by his presence and needed a support system - namely, me.
I smiled at her. It was as if a cold, cold hand had caught hold of my little heart and was squeezing it slowly, painfully. Well, at least, that's how it felt to watch the chemistry between them both. And no, I'm not exaggerating.
I concentrated fiercely on my mobile phone this time, so much so that I began to see double. I might have ended up cross-eyed if he hadn't spoken just then.
"You youngsters use a lot of the mobile phone these days."
Good, at least this comment was directed at me. It was a general comment I could respond to.
But before I could even open my mouth, my friend smiled slowly, and said,"What's with the you before the youngsters? You're not that old."
He smiled right back, his smile doing wonders to his already well-sculpted face. "Well, there's still an age difference between us that doesn't help me in understanding what's so special about text messages. I could call you up if I wanted to talk or say something. Why message?"
"Well, for one, the messages are free," I said slowly,not wanting to feel left out, not knowing what else to say.
He nodded, seemingly deep in thought. "Which reminds me," he said, after a second or two, "I haven't got your phone number."
He seemed to be saying this to both of us, but I knew that he wasn't addressing me.
My friend dutifully recited the digits of her phone number, clearly, softly, slowly.
"So, what do you think?" he said, suddenly. "What were you thinking when you said I'm not that old?"
I pretended I'd never heard him. My heart was breaking into a thousand pieces, but I was busy staring at the moon that was just faintly appearing on the sky.
She blushed, again. "Well, you really aren't, you know. Old, I mean. You don't even seem older than, you know, something like twenty six, or seven, or eight."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You think twelve years isn't such a big age gap?"
Suddenly, my friend sounded beautifully shy. "No, I don't think so," she said softly. I was sure she wasn't feigning the huskiness that colored her voice.
For a moment, as they looked into the depths of each others' eyes, I suppose, to them, there seemed to be no one else in that room but them.
I decided it was past time. I should have left long back. This was a private, personal moment for them. It was all so heartbreaking, but so beautiful nevertheless. My friend, poor thing, had pretended that she was playing the role of the perfect psychologist, while she'd been telling only the truth all the time.
"You know what you mean by what you just said?" I heard him ask her.
It was then that I just knew, with sheer feminine instinct, that the feelings between them was mutual, and had been so all these days, all this time.
I decided to leave, without disturbing them.
As if he just noticed my even existing, I heard him call out to me. "Hey Princess, where are you going?"
Princess, huh?
I indicated my watch. "I should be getting back. You guys take your time."
"Don't you want to be the first to know?" he asked, smiling.
It was then that I realized that I meant something to him, at least. Something like a good friend, because he wanted me to know.
When I turned to face them, my friend just wouldn't meet my eyes.
I smiled reassuringly at her. Hey, I might have wanted the guy for myself, but I wasn't so evil I wouldn't want anyone else to be happy in life.
Her face cleared slowly, and she hugged me, her face brightening in a wonderful smile.
When we released each other from the bone-shattering hug, his hand reached out slowly to hold hers in a tender grip.
It was the defining moment. The very moment that repeated itself millions of time, over and over, in all the most wonderful dreams I'd ever dreamed of him. But it was happening to her, not me.
As we walked together back to the classroom, both of them walking hand in hand beside me, I realized he'd make a good friend. And he'd make the lousiest homosexual.
Whoever thought my psychologist friend could be so right for the man I dreamed was so right for me?

THAT CERTAIN SOMETHING

Dedicated to the sexiest professor I've ever seen and known, because he has inspired me to write this one.

I don’t know why I remembered him that day. I was sitting on a high chair next to the window, and the rain was pitter-pattering on the window panes.
And I remembered him. After almost twenty years.
My mind flew back to my college days.

.

A “something” for an old, married man.
Yep, that’s what I’d got.
I looked at my professor with dreamy eyes.
He was around six feet and a few inches tall. I mean, he was so tall that he dwarfed my five-foot-eight frame.
He could be sixty. Possibly even sixty-five. And he was just too wonderful.
I couldn’t believe a man could be so old and so sexy at the same time. As his lean, clean fingers adjusted his specs, and his lips moved to read out from some book – and what a voice! – I just couldn’t take my eyes off him.
He raised his head, and looked at me. And smiled.
His face broke into a thousand wrinkles, but hell, I loved it. I loved the way his eyes smiled too, when his lips curved, and his brilliant white teeth shone through.
This just couldn’t be true. It was too bad to be true.

I didn’t share my thoughts with anyone. Usually, I went around babbling about my feelings, and making something slightly short of a public announcement. If you ask my friends, all of them could, even now, tell you about all the crushes and “loves” I’ve felt so far. All of them.
But I just didn’t mention about my professor to anyone. Probably because I suspected I would be laughed at. Or still worse, bitched about. Labeled, and stamped. Worst of all, just misunderstood.
I guess it isn’t all that normal for a girl of twenty to fall for a man about three times as old as she is. It simply didn’t seem to make sense. Maybe a shrink would’ve understood and even come up with “explanations” for what I felt, but hell, only I knew exactly how I felt what I felt.

I began to act weird. I mean, weirder than I usually behave with the guys I’m interested in.
Back in school, I used to fall in and out of love, like every once in three weeks, with a new guy each time. I used to keep staring at them, become completely outgoing, pull them into conversations, find ways and means of talking to them all the time. In short, I tortured them.
But this time, it was different. I was outgoing no longer. I acted shy. I blushed. I avoided meeting his eyes. My toes curled whenever I looked at him, and I just couldn’t seem to look up from the ground. He was just too… special.
Probably it was because he wasn’t like the guys I’ve felt stuff for before. For one, I never called him a “guy”. I call him a “man”. And that makes a lot of difference – at least, to me.
I was the Class Representative, but I avoided meeting him alone at all costs. Every living moment I spent dreaming about him. His face. His smile. His voice. Him.
I loved the way he seated himself on the table, instead of on the chair. I loved the way he drank his cola from the can. I loved the way he raised his eyebrows when he found something surprising.
I adored the way he never patronized the students. He was honest with his opinions. He always spoke with a smile. He was just too wonderful.
It seemed like only I noticed everything about him. Just about everything. From the way he dressed, to the way he walked, and talked, just everything. I was the one who watched him, without him knowing about it, from under my lashes, and averted my eyes the moment his eyes fell on me.
It was torment. Pure torment, because I knew it was sheer madness. He was too old for me. He was just too old, period. But I loved him. I told myself everyday I shouldn’t, but I knew I was already too deep in it.

Our department’s symposium was coming up. I was the Assistant Joint Secretary – quite a prestigious post. The problem was, I had to go around and invite everyone. Including him.
I knocked on the door, with a trembling hand, and waited for his response. When he said, “Come in”, my heart did curious somersaults. I had the crazy impulse to laugh hysterically, but I controlled myself, and walked in.
He looked up and smiled, and welcomed me, addressing me by my name.
I was surprised he knew my name. My heart literally jumped from within my breast in unadulterated joy.
Madness.
His fingers brushed mine lightly, as he took the invitation from my hands. I hadn’t realized I was actually holding it tightly, till he looked up at me questioningly, and tried to gently pull the invitation from my fingers.
I immediately let go of it. And promptly blushed.
He didn’t seem to have noticed. His eyes were busy scanning the invite. He asked me a few impersonal questions about the events. I stuttered, stammered, but managed to act calm and poised, when there was a major storm raging on the inside of me.
When, finally, he was done with accepting the invite, I nodded sharply, and left his room abruptly.
The man was doing strange things to me.

A few days later, I turned up for my class surprisingly early.
And was dismayed to find that no one else had turned up yet. I took out a book, and started to read something.
I was offered a rude shock when I heard his voice wishing me a good morning. I looked up, tried to stand up, stumbled, and caught the edge of the table to balance myself.
“I’m sorry if I’d startled you,” he said, with his charming, disarming smile. My, he was so gallant, so gentlemanly. He was so a man, and not just a guy.
I sat down again, clumsily, and cursed myself for acting so… school-girlish. I wasn’t like this even back in school!
“So, are your parents staying here? Or elsewhere?”
He wasn’t looking at me when he asked this; he was readying the projector for the presentation. But I knew he couldn’t have asked anyone else. There wasn’t anyone else in the room.
I told him my parents lived in the same city. I wasn’t a hosteller. My dad was a businessman. My mom didn’t work. She took care of us – my dad, me and my brothers. I’ve got two brothers.
I realized I was talking too much, so I stopped.
No one would’ve thought he’d been listening to me. He seemed to be concentrating on the projector and its damned wires, and the sheets, sheets and more sheets of notes he had with him.
But he surprised me by saying, “Tell me more. What do your brothers do?”
I took it slow and steady this time. I’d taken a few breaths, thankfully, and I spoke clearly, without rambling on and on.
He smiled, without looking at me. I would’ve gladly made a fool of myself then, just to see that smile of his again.
And then, before he could ask me any more questions, the others ambled in, much to my relief. Our dialogue had ended, for then.

I had to meet him alone, again. For the symposium work. I requested him to judge the participants of some event – the event I was managing. I wondered why I wanted him to be there on my big day. I just wanted him to be there. He agreed readily. He said he would gladly do it.
I wondered if he’d do something gladly for me. Just for my sake.

The event came. I’d managed so many events in my college before. Addressed crowds, and smiled at, and welcomed guests.
I’d just wished the delegates and the others a pleasant morning, when he walked into the room.
And then, I began to stammer. I’d become so nervous. The auditorium was completely air-conditioned, but I was sweaty. My palms were clammy, and my lips went dry.
It felt like my biggest failure ever. I felt like such a loser.

The General Secretary was mad at me. The Joint Secretary was mad at me. The Treasurer was mad at me. The whole damned committee was mad at me.
All the guests had filed out, and I was alone inside the huge auditorium. I sat down on one of the chairs, and closed my eyes. I’d messed the whole experience for a lot of people with my inefficient and unprofessional behavior. I felt irrationally mad at myself. Not at him. Never at him.
“You’ve done a good job.”
I opened my eyes, slowly. Oh, no. Not now.
“Thank you, sir.” I looked the embodiment of composure. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel the same way.
“I mean it.”
I nodded politely, and smiled a ghost of a smile.
He smiled right back, like bright sunshine pouring through the dark clouds. I glanced away.
“You should know that everything can’t be right always. In every event, something always goes wrong.”
“It’s all my fault,” I murmured.
“No, it isn’t. You did a good job for someone under so much of stress. Do you honestly think walking up the stage and speaking into the mike is easy?”
“It should be,” I said, puzzled, "at least, for a person like you." He was a professor, after all. He should be facing crowds of people all the time.
“Then you should know it isn’t. I’ve got a huge phobia for on-stage activities.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Actually, I’m not. I’m quite serious. That’s why I deal with little batches of students, like yours. Like around twenty students at a time. Once I’ve grown familiar with them, I find it easy to talk to them.”
I shook my head in wonder. He looked so confident, he possessed such charisma, such power, I simply couldn’t believe he feared anything.

And then, everything slid to normality between us.
I was able to smile at him easily. Meet his eyes. Talk to him without blushing.
But what I felt for him stayed on. This wasn’t one of my three-week-long crushes. This wasn’t one of the touch-and-go things I felt for guys.
I respected him, and not just because he was old. I respected him because he simply commanded it. Pure and simple.
We had long, quiet conversations every morning, before the lectures started. Before the other students walked in.
He was an avid reader. He was more into non-fiction though, and I, fiction. We exchanged books. We exchanged anecdotes, and laughed together.
But never once, before the other students, did he treat me like a special student. Never once did he give me grades I didn’t deserve. No one had any idea we shared an intellectual relationship. He didn’t do anything to plant even an inkling of doubt in the other students’ minds.
That just made me respect him more. And made me love him all the more.

When I asked him why he hadn’t turned up for a lecture, he told me his wife was leaving for her native place by the end of the week, and he was unwell.
When the other students asked him the same question, he just said that he was unwell.
I wondered why he should tell only me about his wife leaving town.
Not that I visited him anytime after his wife had left, or anything. Even though I did know where he lived, and that his wife had definitely left.
I was duly informed, by none other than him, when she returned. He spoke about her frequently from then on. He mentioned her whenever we were talking.
I don’t know why, but I never did like the woman.
I guess I was just being madly jealous of her.

I’d completed my final year in college by the time I’d come to terms with my feelings for him. He was just going to be there in my life. I was just taking it for granted. Forever, not as in being physically present, but as in making his presence felt so strongly, that it might as well have been physical.
Our goodbyes were said, our hands shaken. He smiled his usual smile, and I left, drying my eyes on my sleeve, without his knowledge. I thought, he’d probably never know.

.

After that, I'd left for the United States. I'd landed myself a great job about eighteen years ago. But I still remembered him. I'd had about five to six boyfriends so far, none of them about whom I was serious. I just seemed incapable of having a steady relationship.

I wouldn't say that I've remained single because I've been thinking about my professor. No, that's not it. It's just that I never found myself discontented with my singleness. And I never did meet any guy who convinced me that marriage is bliss.

But I always remembered him. I tried to look for him in every guy I met. I wondered if a guy would become like him when he grew old. But I could never imagine someone being as wonderful as him at sixty.

.

I wondered why I had to remember him after so many years. Probably because I was in India after so long? Probably because I was invited as an alumnus who was respected, to speak to a group of students of the department I'd studied in?

I'd gotten over my fear of crowds a long time back. I make frequent presentations to the people at my company, and I simply can't afford to be scared of making public appearances anymore.

The day dawned bright and clear. How'd he be now, I wondered. He must be as old as eighty now. But eighty was a big number, and very few people managed to reach it.
I shivered. He must be eighty, and even as fit as he was back then. Please, God, don't let anything else to happen to him, or to have happened to him.

The hall was overflowing with students. I had to speak about the current trends in the industry, and what the industry expected of the students of this discipline.
Suddenly, I felt as if I was twenty all over again. I was nervous, looking at all those eager and expectant faces of the students. My hands were clammy, but I managed to smile bravely, and I started speaking clearly.

He wasn't there. That was the first thing that'd hit me as soon as I'd entered the room. I knew it, even without looking for him. He had a strong, powerful presence, something that wasn't just noticed, but sensed; felt.
I asked one of the organizers about him, slowly.
"He's at his quarters, madam. He's too unwell to even move. He hasn't lectured for years together. Old age has forced him to retire."
"Oh, he... he'll be alright, won't he?" I asked, softly.
The man said sadly, "We all want him to bounce back, but we know it's doubtful, madam. The doctor has told us to expect bad news anytime."
I managed not to show more than a little sympathy on my face. I concealed my shock at the news, and asked, "Oh, could I visit him?"

After lunch, the proceedings seemed to drag on and on. I left earlier than I'd planned and walked to his quarters.
Nothing had changed. He still lived at the same block, the same flat.
I knocked on the door of his flat. A thin lady, who must have been about as old as I was, opened the door. She asked me who I was, and when I told her, she let me in.
She was my professor's daughter. She looked so like him.
The shock of my lifetime awaited me in his room.
A man who looked nothing like the dynamic, vibrant, charming man I'd known was lying on the bed. This figure I was seeing couldn't even have been the whisper of the magical man I'd known.
My heart wept at the sight, but I somehow managed to walk to his bed, without faltering.
He wasn't asleep. Suddenly, a little smile lit his face. "You," he said softly.
"It's me," I whispered stupidly. He could be thinking I was anyone, I realized.
But, no. He'd recognized me. He addressed me by my name.
I was surprised, and I wanted to cry. But I firmly kept my feelings in check, and managed to talk to him in a soothing voice. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, just fine," he said, smiling. God, he hadn't changed at all. His body might have thinned, become weak, but the man was still an enigma, a special being. "My age has caught up with me finally, that's all."
I told him that I'd come because I was invited to speak to the students.
He smiled. "So, you've gotten over your fear, after all?"
He remembered, I thought, surprised. I told him about my job. I told him irrelevant things. He was listening as carefully, patiently, as he used to all those years back.
I was trying so hard to keep my tears from falling out. I just couldn't cry in front of him.
He asked me if I was married. I told him I wasn't.
He told me every woman must get married sometime in her life. When I told him my life was complete without marriage, he laughed at that. "You'd never know," was all he said.
I had to leave then, because he looked too tired. His eyes had lost their glow, his face held more wrinkles, but still he was the handsomest man I'd ever known. I felt an inexplicable sadness tugging at my heart, as I got up to leave.
He ruffled my hair affectionately, as I bent towards him. "You are the most favorite of all my students so far," he said, softly.
Those were the last words he said to me.

.

When I pondered over our meeting, I realized that I'd never seen his wife anywhere. Maybe she was dead, I thought sadly. I'd never known her. True, I was jealous of her, and I even hated her with a childish fervor, but I'd always wanted to know her, as a person. She was his wife, after all. I wanted to know the woman he loved.

I opened the newspaper the next morning to find his photograph in the Obituary column. I mourned, and cried my heart out. I couldn't believe that I'd met him yesterday, and today he was no more. Was it so easy to wipe his enigmatic, wonderful presence from the face of the earth, just like that?

I went to his quarters again, to visit his daughter.
She let me in, wordlessly. We didn't speak for sometime. We were too unhappy to speak, our heavy hearts too full with grief.
"He liked you so much," she said, after some time.
"I know," I whispered.
Silence, again.
Then, I asked, "Your mother...?"
"Ma died about thirty years ago," she said, slowly.

When I left, I knew what he'd done.
He'd gone, leaving so many knots unreleased. So many secrets hidden.
I cried silently as I walked in the rain back home. He'd been a good professor to everyone, including me. But he'd shown that he was a very good man, only to me.
He'd cared, after all. He could've done anything, but he'd cared. He'd lied about his wife to me, for me. He'd been the perfect gentleman. He hadn't hurt me by telling me the brutal truth. He'd been so kind, so understanding, all the while knowing.
He'd protected me from myself.
As I walked slowly, the skies cried with me, acknowledging that truth.

ONCE UPON A DREAM

I don't think she would've remembered me even if I'd taken it upon myself to remind her that she had seen me before. Been my friend. Held my hand. Even kissed me once, very fleetingly.
I watched her from beneath my lashes, as I took a delicate sip from the flute. She didn't know I was watching her. She didn't know I'd been watching her all through the party. She hadn't known I was watching her for years together now.
I believe she had been beautiful all her life. She was born beautiful. She was one of the most beautiful, cherubic children in kindergarten. She had rosy cheeks and such a lovely smile back then, and she was the ideal teacher's pet. And all through school, too.
And then I lost touch with her.
But she was always there. She had always been there. Every time I tried to date a woman, like a woman, fall for some woman, she was always there, unseen, yet so potent. She was the yardstick I measured all the other girls I met with. And every other girl fell short. She was right there, high on top of a pedestal, within me. Within my mind's eye, her image remained on the sands of time, untouched by the waves of life.
Oh, she was so beautiful. She was smiling up at someone now - I smelled severe competition there. He was the typical woman's man. In other words, someone ladies swooned at the sight of.
I sighed. Oh, well. This particular lady had stars in her eyes, definitely. It seemed like the man had asked her to dance. She blushed profusely, and then she placed her hand elegantly, softly, in his. And then they waltzed.
I wondered what he was telling her. Whatever he said seemed to have such a huge impact on her. She reacted in extremes - she laughed aloud, smiled widely. She, who usually underplayed her emotions. This man was surely getting under her skin.

She smiled eagerly up at him, her hero since childhood. He was so wonderful. Tall, dark and handsome, everything a woman wanted. So regally male. So powerful, wealthy - what not?
But she didn't love him because of what he possessed. She loved him because he was who he was. Because they were meant to be. Because she had watched him date woman after woman, and dump each one of them unceremoniously, like yesterday's mashed potatoes. And she had known she was the one for him. Yes, she'd known as clearly as she knew what her name was. As clearly as she knew she'd always loved him, that he was the one for her.
What didn't she have that would not match a man like him? She came from one of the wealthiest, most highly respected families in the world. She had the wealth. She had the beauty. She had a management degree from one of the top universities in the world. Every journal, magazine and newspaper featured her photograph and speculated on who her latest boyfriend might be. But she'd always waited for her dream man. This man, who had asked her to dance with him. A slow dance, too.
She blushed prettily, and accepted without second thought. She placed her hand daintily in his. His fingers tightened reassuringly around hers.
"Hey, you're cold."
His smiling voice was her undoing. She fell, drained, without energy, on him. How could she tell him that she wasn't cold, but terribly warm, in some of the most unexpected places? His touch did that to her. His nearness did that to her. He did that to her.
She had never felt so helpless, like a puppet under the puppeteer's control, before. Oh, how much she loved him!
Every time he told her about a date he had in the evening, she'd pump him for more information. She'd ask him everything she could about the new girl. She'd question him on what she looked like, what kind of clothing sense she had, what kind of a person she was. They were all innocent questions on the outside, but even while she was asking them, her mind made all the comparisons possible between her and the new girl. And she always knew he'd ultimately come back to her, tell her they'd broken up. That the new girl wasn't good enough for him. Oh, she knew.
Still, she had no idea how to make him stay. How to make him see that she was the one for him. He should stop flitting from woman to woman. Right now, she was a mere substitute - a friend he remembered when he was between girlfriends. Ouch, that hurt, but that was how it was. And she had no idea how to change the scene.
Even now, as she was trying to think fast, he'd left her by herself, and was chatting up a very pretty looking girl in the corner of the room. Probably his prospective girlfriend.
She sighed. When would he ever learn that she and only she could sate him, satiate him, satisfy him, give him all that he needed?
"You seem to be in desperate need of good company right now."
She started, as the deep male voice startled her, and she ended up spilling all the contents of her cup on the floor. She stared at the new entry.
He was tall. Not as tall as her dream boy, but he was definitely tall. He wasn't conventionally handsome. In fact, his once strong roman nose had been punched and looked pretty crooked now, but even that was attractive on his face. His eyes were a very normal, common shade of gray, but somehow there was nothing ordinary about them at all. They twinkled, and sparkled, with good-natured mischief and good humor.
She looked at him wordlessly with a raised eyebrow.
He sat next to her, without explaining about his presence there. "So, are you?"
She blinked. "Am I what?"
"In need of good company?" He smiled.
"And are you?" She asked, with an involuntary smile that curled her beautiful lips.
"Am I what?"
"Good company, I mean?"
"I definitely am." His smile showed confidence, a kind of rare confidence that shone from within.
Somehow, she felt as if they'd met before. She had no idea why. She felt as if she'd already known him, spoken to him, spent a lot of time with him. There existed an easy camaraderie between them that was quite uncommon between two strangers.
"Do I know you?" she asked, feeling wary all of a sudden.
He smiled distantly. "Yes and no, I'd say."
He didn't bother to elaborate on that. She didn't know how to ask him to explain that cryptic statement.
"So, have you got a special something for that guy?" his voice was close to her ears all of a sudden, as if sharing an intimate secret with her.
Great, she thought. He'd caught her looking at her dream boy.
"Well, how does that matter to you?" She tried to sound cool.
"You're right, it doesn't. Let's just say it's some sort of a friendly interest. I might try wooing you in the near future."
Now she raised both her eyebrows. "You've got the guts, I must give it to you." She eyed him coolly, top to toe. "Do you even know whom you're talking to?" She raised her chin defensively.
He chuckled softly. "Of course, I know whom I'm talking to. So, tell me, are you interested in that guy or not? The least you could do is be honest to a guy who is showing an honest interest in you!"
She took a deep breath. It was a secret she'd been keeping from even her close friend all these years. But something about this man made her trust him, albeit a little warily. She knew she wanted to tell him, she wanted to even seek his help and advice - she had no idea why. She guessed it was one of those impulsive things she'd gotten to doing every now and then. She honestly had no idea.
All of a sudden, a thought struck her. He was probably a journalist. Yes, that was it. The one plausible answer. He was probably a journalist in desperate need for a breakthrough. He was probably one of these newspaper people who were looking for the big break, the big revolutionary piece of gossip about some multimillionaire's daughter.
"Why do you ask?" she retorted, with a saccharine sweet smile. "So you could be the first to splash it on all of your front page if it is so?"
He looked genuinely bewildered. "I've got no idea what you're trying to insinuate," he said softly. He was smooth, she must give him that. "OK, I know, you're probably one of these guys from the lowest rung of some so-and-so newspaper, or some glossy magazine, and you really need your big break." She let her hand sweep, gesturing the whole crowd. "There are so many wealthy people here. Target someone else, stalk someone else. Go."
He laughed. "Come on, surely you don't think I'm a gossip-column writer?" He tried to look hurt. "Lady, I'm interested in you. Really. If you aren't interested in me, it's OK, fine. But you know next to nothing about getting a man, and simply, absolutely nothing about keeping him."
She sighed. Ya, so he knew. So what? Really, was it so obvious?
The newcomer placed his palm gently, warmly on her hand. "Listen, you don't know me, I know, but you could try telling me about this. I could help you." As an afterthought, he added, "Well, somehow."
She smiled, softly, but sadly. "No one is going to be able to help me, least of all you."
"You'd never know," was all he said.

I don't know what made her tell me everything about her. I sat there, holding her hand, listening to all that she said. I could feel my heart breaking into a million tiny pieces, but not one of them wanted me to stop her and tell her I loved her.
I felt sorry for her. Her story was, more or less, like mine. Except that it was probably more painful, with her seeing him dating a new woman everyday. I could see that she was so fervent in her feelings for him, her eyes caressing him, following him wherever he went. Her eyes almost shed tears of blood whenever she saw him with another girl.
It hurt me to see her hurt within.
She told me how she'd nurtured her love for him ever since childhood.
I thought about my love for her right from kindergarten. I thought of the untold love I'd cherished like the brightest, most valuable pearl, all these years. Her love was as pure, as precious.
She told me she didn't know how to make him see light. He was so unfocused, so unwilling to settle down with any girl.
The truth I was holding secretly close to me made my chest to constrict. I really wished I could tell her then and there. But I couldn't. Seeing her eyes sparkle with unshed tears, seeing her face so sad, so unhappy with her need for him, I just couldn't tell her about myself. I couldn't even tell her that she'd known me already; that we'd been friends once upon a time, once upon a dream.

She wasn't sure how successful this man's idea would be. She had absolutely no idea, but she was willing to try, anyway. She was so desperate, so willing to cling to just about anything.
She held the newcomer's hand, and let him lead her to the dance floor. She'd been unsure at first, unwilling to hope. But he had smiled gently, reassuringly. Somehow, she was now going along with his crazy scheme.
Somehow, the new couple on the dance floor caught everyone's attention. This man was virtually a newcomer in the circles of the high and mighty and filthy rich. How could he manage to get the princess of the business kingdom to dance with him? The question in everyone's eyes was clear, almost asked aloud.
All of a sudden, he dipped her. She let out a little whoop of delight, a cheerful sound. "What are you doing?" she asked, with mirth.
"Haven't you ever been dipped before?" he tsk-tsked as if she'd missed something great in life. "All dancers must try and do this once."
He dipped her again, and their mingled laughter somehow made everyone look at them, and smile.
And, they managed to catch dream boy's attention too.

I could almost feel the prick of my rival's piercing looks aimed at us. I smiled to myself, a sad smile. After all, I was having the last dance.
Oh, how beautiful she looked, all pink and flushed, her face shining with joy as I led her through countless steps I'd picked up somewhere along the way. She was a quick learner, and somehow, as dance partners, we complemented each other so well, we fitted in with each other. We were so right, I knew, but I also knew her heart was with him. The other man. I could never be the one to get a place there.
"He's looking," she whispered, suddenly stricken. She was scared.
Somehow, I didn't like the thought of her being scared. "Don't look," I said softly. "Just dance. Pretend you didn't notice."
"But... How can I? He's watching. He seems..."
"Jealous?" I asked. I didn't like asking, but I did. "Angry? Spitting mad? Ignore. It isn't enough."
"He definitely looks spitting mad."
"Nice," was all I said.
After a few more lively steps, the music changed. Now, it was time for a slow dance. All the couples on the dance floor moved closer to each other, held each other close, warm and closed their eyes, and just moved their bodies together, in tandem. The time for jiving and groovy steps was over.
I knew, dream boy would claim her anytime. He would anytime, cut in, and take her. I wouldn't be able to do anything about it then, but I could make the most of what I was getting now.
"He's coming," she whispered, looking at my face closely. She was smiling. "He's looking jealous, angry and spitting mad."
Great. So he was going to get her.
But should I let her go without a fight? Just like that?
I could almost feel dream boy approach us, from afar. I could almost see him, feel him parting the crowds to get closer to us.
All of a sudden, I swooped down, and kissed her flushed, expectant, upturned face. On her lips. Once, softly.
It was a chaste kiss. There was nothing to it. Nobody even noticed I'd kissed her. Not even dream boy.
But her eyes widened. She looked at me, surprised, shocked. "What..." she murmured. She touched her fingers to her lips, where I'd kissed her. "You..."
We were looking at each other, long and hard, when all of a sudden, a hand touched my shoulder, and a grim-sounding voice said, "Mind if I cut in? I'll take this one."
He didn't seem to really care if I minded or not. I looked at her dazed face once, deeply. She didn't say anything. She wasn't looking at either of us.
"Just a minute, mister," I said, slowly. Without turning to dream boy, I pressed my visiting card into her hand. "I'll be there. Always," I whispered, before he took over.
I knew I really was defeated when she didn't even look at the card, but straight at the face of dream boy, before moving into his arms willingly, warmly. I couldn't bear to watch her warm, lush body pliant in his arms, moving rhythmically with his, the way it'd moved with mine.
I walked away from her, without turning back. From her, from her life, as quickly, as silently as I'd entered it.
It was really over.

Oh, he didn't know. The man who was just walking away didn't know how he'd touched the virgin's heart with his one innocent kiss. From that one kiss, she'd known he'd loved her for years. She'd known that she'd really known him for years. She'd known he wanted her to be happy. That he cared.
She'd known he wanted to be the one to make her happy, to keep her happy.
And her heart had ached. She, who knew full well how painful unrequited love was, had just mutely broken a man's heart.
She looked at dream boy's face. His eyes were only for her. He'd realized she was the one for him. His possessiveness made her soar high. This man had been her dream all her life. This man had made her love, had made her dream, had never seen her until today. She'd always wanted this. She'd always wanted to be held this way, by this one man.
And the man who really, truly loved her, without telling her about it, had gone, after making her realize her dream. Her heart ached for his secret, unrequited love.
She knew she'd never laugh like that again. Never open herself up like that again to another man, or tell another man all about herself again. She knew she'd remember him for the rest of her life, with gratitude, with a special affection.
She tried to look for him through the crowd.
He had gone.
He had walked away from her, without turning back. From her, from her life, as quickly as he'd entered. But he'd made the mark of a lifetime on her.
She looked at her only love's face, and her heart constricted with love. She smiled, the simple smile making her face look beautiful, radiant. This beautiful slow dance was just the beginning.

AS YOU LIKE IT

I'm using Shakespeare's excuse for a title, and Meena's story. I dedicate this work to Meena, the true author of this beautifully romantic, touching little story. Loved listening to her say it. Hope my version, though not as good, animated or touching as hers, does at least a wee bit of justice to the original version which was really, amazingly, truly wonderful.

Rita stepped on the accelerator a little too aggressively.
This just wasn't her usual driving style. And she blamed Adam for this too.
"Damn," she muttered fiercely to herself. "Damn, damn, damn."
She remembered the previous night. She remembered how his muscles had rippled under the wonderfully romantic mixture of starlight and moonlight. How the breeze through the open window had blown the curtains away, and caressed them both with an abandoned wantonness that had raised their lovemaking to fever pitch...
She used a very rude, unladylike expletive as she remembered all the minor and major details and events of the previous night with sharp, shaming clarity.
She shouldn't have gone out with him. Well, a night out with the man of her dreams had been tempting, irresistible... An innocent night out was what he'd promised, and she, so naively, had accepted that.
She shouldn't have allowed him to touch her. But no, the candlelight dinner, and flowers, and the soft, melodious music had demanded that they both dance to the magical tune. And they'd done just that. They'd danced till they'd both become dizzy with each other's scent, and sight, and sound, and touch, and feel...
She caught one lone tear with the tip of her elegant manicured forefinger. She shouldn't even have looked at him.
But then, he'd looked so handsome in his red T-shirt that'd clung to his body like a second skin, soaked in his sweat, his sweat which peeped out to see just how masculine, manly, aggressive their owner looked as he tried to help her out by pushing her car ahead...
Her car, whose engine had died on her just a beautiful twenty hours back.
Oh, hell.
And he was there, all of a sudden. He'd appeared from nowhere, his long legs encased in faded blue jeans, kind of shabby-looking, with a shadow of a beard appearing on his face. There was nothing suave about him, nothing that spoke of class, but still he exuded a magnetism that had nothing to do with money, or sophistication.
Just sex.
She smiled to herself whimsically. He'd been all male. He'd been unafraid of hard, physical work. He'd spoken with the innocence of a man who lived life with the heart of a child, who didn't have lots of money to worry about.
Money.
Which reminded her of the job she'd lost even before she met him.
Oh, hell.
And money also brought to mind the credit cards and the purse she'd left in his room.
Oh, double hell.
The hand of the meter next to her steering wheel told her that her car's gas was of a quantity next to nothing.
She wanted to scream out loud. She had no money, she'd maxed her credit cards out already, anyway. So even if she did have those wretched cards with her, she wouldn't have been able to use them.
What more, she was running away from something that had seemed so beautiful.
She was afraid of the ultimate rejection, she realized. She hadn't wanted to face him that morning after the beautiful night they'd spent in each other's arms and hear him say, "Hey, what are you doing here?"
After all, he was someone she almost never knew. Almost...
Yet she'd felt as if she'd known him all her life.
Come on, you idiot, she told herself. Grow up, and get a life. Get your heart back, broken though it may be, and carry on with your miserable life.
Of course, he'd not be as foolish as she was. He might wake up and feel relieved to see that she wasn't there.
Oh, the things a few bubbles from exquisite wine could do to the sanity of two strangers...
"Damn," she said to herself again. She must do something about the money that she didn't have.
All of a sudden, she caught herself fantasizing. What if he cared? What if he followed her all the way to wherever she was going?
Ya, right, dream on.
Oh, hell.
A couple of tears made their way down her cheeks.
Just who did he think he was? He was a nobody. She didn't know anything about him other than his first name, and she'd slept with him, lost her virginity.
What could be said about her? And to think that she had walked out on her previous job because her boss was being nasty with her...
"Damn," she muttered to herself, for the umpteenth time. She must have been crazy. Definitely suicidal.
As she looked up, she saw a wooden board with the word Moonshine on it. The board was shaped like an arrow. The arrow was pointing to a wooden building, which looked more like an inviting house.
Rita guessed it was a motel. And it was, she realized, as she peeped slightly inside. Beneath the wooden board, however, she noticed another sign she hadn't noticed before. "Cook needed. Must be..."
Blah blah, but she fit the bill. She could cook, she could eat what she cooked and she survived after she ate whatever she cooked. Wasn't that enough?
She parked her car, more than slightly relieved that her car didn't need a gas refill right then. She could eat, and approach the matter of the new job nicely, like a professional.
She reapplied her lipstick, and styled her hair to look a little more efficient. Or to make herself seem older. Whatever.
As she walked towards the entrance, a slight fear gripped her. She had no money, and she just had her words to win the job for herself. She decided to broach the subject of work after she had eaten something. Then they'd expect her to pay her bill, and she'd no money, but she could work, and they just had to give her the job.
She noticed two men ogling her from a corner of the motel. She smiled inwardly to herself. Perhaps, if they weren't like her ex-boss, she'd end up getting the job after all.
It seemed like the motel belonged to them. She ordered herself a coffee. She looked around, curiously.
The motel was well-maintained and tastefully furnished, she thought. If it had been handed over to her totally empty, she'd have chosen the same furnishings, and final touches.
The steaming hot coffee gave her the strength she really needed, as she sipped it slowly.
Then, she got up and walked to the men who were looking at her like they hadn't seen a woman in ages.
"Excuse me..." She said in her sweetest voice.
The two men fell all over themselves to answer her.
She cleared her throat, and said, "Well, I... I came for the job."
"You what?"
"The job. Look, you guys need a cook. And I'm one. I was one a few days back, and my boss wasn't nice to me, so I had to leave there."
The two men were staring at her open-mouthed. She hadn't given them a chance to speak. She'd spoken so fast.
Before one of them could say something, she said quickly, "So, when do I start work?"
"Lady..." One of them said softly, as the other whistled slowly.
"OK, I appreciate your guts," the man who seemed to be the senior of the two said. "Let's see how you make a tuna sandwich, and we'll decide if you can cook worth a damn."
That was easy.
A tuna sandwich, she scoffed. Whom did they think they were putting to test?
Within a few minutes, she produced a delicious looking, heavily packed pair of tuna sandwiches that looked good enough to eat.
The senior man took a bite and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. "How about you start work now?"
She smiled triumphantly.
"But before that, you've got your uniform to wear," the other man said.
Just then, she noticed that they were wearing identical clothes with the Moonshine logo printed on them.
Uh-oh, did that spell trouble? She'd walked out from her previous job when her leering ex-boss had handed her something that looked like the tiniest scrap of dishcloth to wear.
But, no. It was something that'd make her look cute. It was a T-shirt and a pair of trousers, very like the ones the men were wearing, but with a few feminine touches added to them.
"Well, thank you, sir." She smiled at both of them. "You guys manage this place very beautifully. Not many owners treat their female employees with decency," she said.
"We don't own this place," the man hastened to correct her. "Our boss doesn't come in late usually. But today, he hasn't put in his appearance yet."
"Which actually worries us," said the senior-looking man.
"Oh, he'll be here right in time to taste my cooking," she said with a smile. "Just like our first customer, who has just come..." She stopped talking half way through, as she noticed just who had entered.
"You!" she said, astonished, shocked. "You've followed me all the way to this place? How dare you! Let me call the police immediately!" She looked at the two men, as if she expected them to haul this offending new entry out of the motel.
The two men stared at her open-mouthed, which wasn't something she'd not seen already. She let out a quick sigh. "Please go, Adam. I've had enough, I've done enough..."
"Rita, wait a minute," Adam interjected quickly.
"Good morning, boss." The men chose to wish him a good morning just then, and they looked at her as if she had grown a second head. "You're late today."
"I definitely am." He said with an answering smile to his employee. But his eyes never left her.
"Boss?" she said slowly. He was boss here, quite obviously. Oh, hell.
Her heart, which had just risen with a slight, shimmering hope, fell again, back into the dark recesses of depression.
So he hadn't followed her to this place. This motel belonged to him, and he was here, because he came here everyday.
She kept the uniform on the table in front of her. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I've changed my mind about working here," she announced briskly. No way, she just couldn't stand there facing Adam anymore.
The men stared stupidly, as she began walking towards the door.
"Stop," the familiar voice commanded her to stop. "Stop right there. Let me get this straight."
She wasn't about to stop, but in two long strides, he was right in front of her. So she had no option, but to stop.
She refused to face him, to look at him straight, to meet his eyes. She feared what she might see there. Rejection? Dislike?
"Look at me, Rita," he said softly. "You couldn't get enough of me last night, and now, today..."
"Stop it," she said in a lethally low voice. Another word from him about last night, and she might just claw his face, and then murder him.
"Look," he said undeterred, "I won't talk about last night again. All I was trying to say was, let your knowing me, or your spending the night with me not stop you from joining us as the new cook."
She blinked once, twice. Oh, he was saying he doesn't give a damn.
"Please, Rita," he said, "I'm not doing you any favor. I'd hire you anyway, even before this love business came in. I know you're a good cook, after tasting the tuna sandwich you made last night at my..."
She stared at him, long and hard.
"OK, OK, I promised I won't talk about last night. But..."
"What love business?" she asked, dazed, confused.
"Well, it's a very tricky business, this love. I'd always known it's tricky, which is why I never loved another woman all my life. But after you came in, I just had to take the risk... And now I know just how tricky it is," he explained slowly, clearly.
When she didn't say anything, he continued, "I love you, Rita. I loved you ever since the moment I set my eyes on you, ever since I saw you standing there, trying to bring your wild, wayward hair under control, kicking your car, doing even the kicking so daintily. I knew right then, I wanted you, I just needed you in my life.
"But that's definitely not why I'm hiring you," he went on hurriedly, looking concerned, worried that she might take the whole thing in the wrong sense. "I understand you need this job, and you can't go around looking for another job. You've got just a few bills in your purse - I'm sorry, I saw your purse lying on my table, and I... Never mind, I know you need this job, and let my owning this place not bother you. I want you to stay on, just because you're a good cook, and not because I love you. I understand you don't love me, because if you do, you wouldn't run away from me a second time..."
"Shut up, Adam," she said, softly, slowly, her voice husky with emotion. "Just shut up, don't say anything anymore," she put her finger on his lips, as he opened them to say more. "Just don't say anything," she whispered, as she got up on her toes to touch her lips to where her finger had been earlier.
He pulled her closer, his lips smiling wide against hers. "I love you," she whispered, before she drowned in that beautiful, deeply touching kiss that seemed to last forever.
The group of customers who had entered just a few minutes earlier, and were watching the commotion with interest, now clapped, along with the two employees, who just had to wipe tears off their eyes.
The two lovers kissed on, unconcerned, undisturbed. The crowd cheered, smiled.
"The true love business, that's what this is," murmured the senior-looking of the two men. "That's just what this is."