The conversation

The moment hung still, like a summer noon in a blind alley. He felt trapped in a time warp, where all that existed was the aroma of coffee and the dark odour of tobacoo wrapped around a tilted head with hair cascading across piercing eyes, and all that moved was wave after wave of doomed desire.

He would probably have been asphyxiated, when he was brought back to the familiar world by her voice: is it…about…me? Spoken with disbelief, confusion, hesitation, diffidence.

It was then that he realised that he has been caught in the act. His laptop screen was right in front, there for all to see.

Angry that his fantasy had lost its virginity, confused that his many realities were suddenly forced stand face to face without knowing what to say or do, he blurted out: NO.

She seemed relieved: Sorry, I was…getting ideas. She got up, took her things, and left, evidently
quite embarrassed.

Every tragedy has its comic moments. By the time he had rushed to the door mumbling yeses and no’s and buts, she was already on the other side of the street, and a gulf of speeding cars separated the two.