Medusa in love

He could see through her. Right through that glossy smile.

It was the summer of 2010. June to be precise: it’s almost impossible to call a season a season when you live in Delhi. She used to tie her hair back then, a thick black ponytail followed every move of her head. Sometimes, he almost got lost when she moved too fast.
“That hair was Medusa’s trap!” his best friend would say, when he would cry over a glass of cheap whiskey, even months into their beak up.

But now, things were different. She had what many girls called the ‘Rihanna’ cut.
He didn’t get it.
But then, he didn’t get a lot of things.

Like the time she would not take his calls.
Or those where she would call him names, names that would squash his ego into a messy pulp.

“Another coffee, sir?” she asked again.

“No, thank you,” his voice was trembling.

She looked away and walked off. Just like she did, years ago.

“Pass me the baby’s bottle,” his wife said, already exhausted from the plane ride that made their six-month-old daughter cry her lungs out.

As he passed the milk from his tray table, he noticed his empty coffee cup and the tissue paper that clung to it.
Were those words, he read?
“You have a beautiful wife,”  it said.
The words scribbled in neat, spaced out letters.
And just underneath, was a phone number.




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