On supermarket flowers

There were many things I was leaving behind as the Uber made its way to the station on a crisp December afternoon in Delhi. As the traffic jam cleared and the car started moving again, I realized that some endings are better than others.

The last three days had been quite emotionally taxing and regardless of what I tried, the deep feeling of emptiness reminded me where I was in life. Where was my life heading? What was I even trying to do?

But out of all the things, I just couldn’t stop thinking about the flowers that I brought for you. I want to imagine they are still on the shelf you put them on, all neat and untouched, but they are probably gone by now. Like everything else, flowers die too after all.

I had spent at least half an hour smoking outside the flower store last morning while they were getting arranged. I didn’t even know why I was getting them for you, but I felt like seeing you again after all these years would have been special. I had imagined that particular moment many times in life, often as an escape, and I always imagined having a bunch of flowers in my hand when you opened the door.

Yet, now that I look back on it, that moment passed as quickly as it arrived. I didn’t even take it in or even hug you properly. I was nervous and couldn’t shake off the metaphorical dark cloud that’s always over whatever you meant to me. I was here finally, and I couldn’t get over how pretty sunlight looks when it’s reflected off your eyes.

My anticipation, over all those months, had been slowly but steadily changing me like a river cutting through mountains. It wasn’t always like this, I wasn’t always like this but at that moment, being in front of you, there was nothing I wanted more than I wanted you.

Sometimes, my optimism gets in the way of making logical choices and your subtle reservation made me feel like this was one of those choices that were not particularly logical.

Finally, I got to the station and walked in, leaving the city again with my heart feeling like a bag of stones. I still wonder what ever will happen to those pretty little flowers, not that it matters.

The 22nd Street

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