Quiet, LoveA Story by Sharan SureshThe bed had been sliding for the past few seconds. The recoil from our unapologetic laughter pushed our spines harder against the puttied wall and we glided away from the wall and the red light above, like two dreamy young lovers on a catamaran rowing away from the sun into the cold privacy of night. “Do you still write?”, she inquired, her brows curled at her temple, her lips easing into a gentle smile. “Some times.”, I shrugged her question off, “let me get you some coffee.”. Leaving her alone on a now idle catamaran, I walked into the kitchen. We were not involved. Not anymore, or, so I imagined. Time had been steadily, but graciously painting my hairs gray. I realized how embarrassed I felt, even simply thinking of the word. Like an old man craving ripe jack-fruit, maybe. Or, it could be the diffidence, the pride of what I once had, revolting against being caged in four letters. But it seemed to not matter much anymore. The water had begun giving off a few fumes. Love. It was much like a wave in the ocean, I thought, as the crackling sound of bubbles began to court the air. It was the fancy years of adolescence. There I was, watching her surreal turns and twists from afar. I wrote volumes about her, her gentle beauty and her life affirming vitality. Then, my youthful legs walked me up to the shore. I held my breath as she drew closer, spreading my hands out to invite her, her unbridled exuberance. She took me in her storm. I felt myself let go off my quill, and be swaddled in her frothy embrace, as she confided her secrets in me. But storms must pass. Even the good ones. I lay on the shore, still tasting her salt on my lips, watching her tirelessly trying to hold on to the eroding shores. Then she faded and a quiet came over. The quiet, I had since then felt at the tip of my pen. I poured the scalding water into our cups and began stirring in the ground coffee. Today the wave had paid the shore a visit, and I was there to greet her, quietly hoping she would never know that I never left. We shared our stories like old lovers, and laughed like new friends. But I no longer was the passionate youth I once was. I lived there now. Love was only the beginning, it was what made me walk up to the shore that day. Like fine grapes, perhaps, as cliched as that is, it was sweet and a little sour. Time was gracious. It had turned the grapes into a full bodied wine, and the wine had a story to tell. That’s what separates love from this quiet. A story brewed in time. She walked in. “How about we take it to the balcony?”, I tempted myself. Without waiting for her consent, I carried the mugs to the balcony, and sat it upon the dying coffee table. She sat opposite me, waving her palm over the mug, letting the aroma drown out the insipid smell of the moist brick wall behind me. It wrapped us in a comfortable cocoon, as we sipped on our coffees, quietly. It was time for her to leave. Storms must pass. Even the good ones. But in the quiet of my time, I had learned this too. Storms, come again. Even the good ones. She turned to leave, then her brows curled again, “Let’s meet again, tomorrow, maybe.” © 2014 Sharan SureshAuthor's Note
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