Glitch

Sitting on different corners of different tables, nibbling a polite lunch, she let her glance stretch on him for that first time, making its way through an array of un-required fancy crockery. And returned to eating again once she settled with the idea that he was in fact, cute. Not the quintessential cute, with a goatee or product in his hair. But cute in the category of his bracket may be. In a slightly more suave, mature way. She told mother about it. And got asked a bunch of questions like how much does he earn, what car does he drive. And she blushed. Secretly. Then openly.

Thoughts made way. Hung around. Why does he have to love color on his everyday shirts. I mean, give me a break, red? Violet? Orange! What must he be like? What must his home look like? Does he do his bed every morning? Does he have girl friends over? Does he drink? Doesn't smoke, she was pretty sure. She began to believe he was another of those who excelled at impression management. Her eyes followed him. Her eyes curiously held on to the whim, that if he ever responded. He didn't. She knew it.

Age seasons us all. Seasons us to being used to who we are. Age, more importantly, makes us realize, who we are not. And can't ever be. She was the woman, who he would never turn to. Like that. But.

A couple of smooth conversations flowed in. Hi, how was everything. Oh, we have common friends. Small world. Work too bad? Work too good? This and that. Us and them. How does time pass? How does it? Time is an invisible bitch. They laugh. She adores, the sound of his rippling laughter. So loud, it reaches the roof. People look. And that's the glitch. That, in this whole uncaring, insanely self conscious universe, is the only glitch.

After a couple of more accidentally exchanged uncomfortable glances that didn't end in smiles, she has moved on. Away. Enough away, to come back home, not tell anybody, and be able to put it down.