This is about a girl.
The one who sat on the couch, lost in the digital world of her Mac. She caught my eye, partly because no one else did and partly because her black coat and scarf exuded a certain sense of style in contrast to the homeliness of the hostel. When Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment bored me, I stole the occasional glance at her, for nothing awakens the mind like physical beauty. She would still be intently staring at the screen, but that sight was enough, to satisfy and not to excite.
Between then and the dinner, I only recall once when she sat the the table next to mine and munched through her lunch, though this time, at close proximity, I dared not turn my face in her direction and be caught stealing glances at her.
"The chicken is too big for me." she stated, poking the roasted chicken thigh under the aluminium foil. I used the forceps to lift it and affirm her observation, though devoid of any solution, I helped myself to it. I grabbed a healthy portion of the rest of the Christmas dishes before I seated myself with a group of strangers that included a masculine, loud woman and an Irishman in a Manchester United jacket.
Moments later, she occupied the last of the 4 seats at the table.
Expectedly, the masculine woman dominated the conversation. A lot of her questions was directed at my person of interest seated a hand's reach opposite me, who had a distinctly foreign accent. I was content to sit and listen while she answered them, revealing patches of her past study and work history, relationships, the reason for her present migration to the city and that of her future ambitions. She was more cute than beautiful, but behind that appearance was a feisty personality that was frustrated by the realities within her native country and harboured an ambition to correct the ills. I quietly checked the desired traits in my mind.
After the boisterous one left, she turned her attention towards me and my origins. I was delighted in this rare display of interest and posed a fair share of questions towards her. As the tables emptied, I felt it was right that we ended the conversation, at least to douse the gossip of my travelling companions seated on the other table. We cleared our plates and I grabbed Dostoevsky and placed myself comfortable on the couch, knowing she would join me there.
Which she did.
She asked me about the book I held in my hand and said how she recalled a certain sentence in the book, which she read when she was 15, on how an alcoholic justified his vice. I had, just that evening, came across that part and flipped through the pages quickly to ask her if the line I was pointing to was it. She was joyous in the rediscovery and I was joyous in helping her to rediscover it. Over the next half an hour or so, we would share our love for books until she had to take leave to sleep early for work tomorrow.
I headed over to my friends seated at the dining table, smiling like an idiot. Inside, I was gleeful, like a boy who had just pulled off the greatest prank ever. My friend probed me with questions and I answered some before opening up Dostoevsky again, but this time, he could not sustain my attention for more than a line. My mind was in an entirely different world altogether. I would eventually retire to bed and struggle to sleep. It was a feeling that had deserted me for a long time and with my imminent departure from the city the next morning, I conspired on how to steal one last moment with her before I left.
The next day I woke up early at 5. Too early perhaps, but I could not sleep. I took a shower, grabbed Dostoevsky and waited in the dining room. Except for the hostel receptionist absorbed in the computer, I was the only living soul there. If she had to go to work, she would be up early. If she did not and I had the misfortune of not seeing her one last, I would leave Dostoevsky at the receptionist to be given to her, with a message inside.
Though, the back-up plan did not have to be put into action. At about 7, she sauntered into the room, in a plain grey sweater and pants, slightly dazed at having just woken up. I greeted her and she asked me why I was up so early.
"I couldn't sleep", I admitted truthfully.
Thank God she did not ask why.
She prepared her toast and took her seat opposite me and we carried on talking that was interrupted by some moments of silence when neither party had much to contribute. My friends would walk into the room out of the blue and that guilty smile reappeared on my face at having been caught red handed. They politely sat at another table and I coaxed them to join me so that everything would appear normal. Then when she had to leave us to go to work, I queried hopefully, "Want me to drop you?"
In comparison to confessions of love, my request was nothing, but it in my own ways, it was an expression of interest and a chance to prolong her physical presence in my life. She took it. It was a cold, wet morning but I was wide awake and all warm inside as I started the car. Einstein was right. When you court a nice girl, an hour seems like a second and soon we arrived at her workplace. I shook hands with her and promised to keep in touch.
As I drove back, I thought, one more to the short list of could-have-beens.
The one who sat on the couch, lost in the digital world of her Mac. She caught my eye, partly because no one else did and partly because her black coat and scarf exuded a certain sense of style in contrast to the homeliness of the hostel. When Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment bored me, I stole the occasional glance at her, for nothing awakens the mind like physical beauty. She would still be intently staring at the screen, but that sight was enough, to satisfy and not to excite.
Between then and the dinner, I only recall once when she sat the the table next to mine and munched through her lunch, though this time, at close proximity, I dared not turn my face in her direction and be caught stealing glances at her.
"The chicken is too big for me." she stated, poking the roasted chicken thigh under the aluminium foil. I used the forceps to lift it and affirm her observation, though devoid of any solution, I helped myself to it. I grabbed a healthy portion of the rest of the Christmas dishes before I seated myself with a group of strangers that included a masculine, loud woman and an Irishman in a Manchester United jacket.
Moments later, she occupied the last of the 4 seats at the table.
Expectedly, the masculine woman dominated the conversation. A lot of her questions was directed at my person of interest seated a hand's reach opposite me, who had a distinctly foreign accent. I was content to sit and listen while she answered them, revealing patches of her past study and work history, relationships, the reason for her present migration to the city and that of her future ambitions. She was more cute than beautiful, but behind that appearance was a feisty personality that was frustrated by the realities within her native country and harboured an ambition to correct the ills. I quietly checked the desired traits in my mind.
After the boisterous one left, she turned her attention towards me and my origins. I was delighted in this rare display of interest and posed a fair share of questions towards her. As the tables emptied, I felt it was right that we ended the conversation, at least to douse the gossip of my travelling companions seated on the other table. We cleared our plates and I grabbed Dostoevsky and placed myself comfortable on the couch, knowing she would join me there.
Which she did.
She asked me about the book I held in my hand and said how she recalled a certain sentence in the book, which she read when she was 15, on how an alcoholic justified his vice. I had, just that evening, came across that part and flipped through the pages quickly to ask her if the line I was pointing to was it. She was joyous in the rediscovery and I was joyous in helping her to rediscover it. Over the next half an hour or so, we would share our love for books until she had to take leave to sleep early for work tomorrow.
I headed over to my friends seated at the dining table, smiling like an idiot. Inside, I was gleeful, like a boy who had just pulled off the greatest prank ever. My friend probed me with questions and I answered some before opening up Dostoevsky again, but this time, he could not sustain my attention for more than a line. My mind was in an entirely different world altogether. I would eventually retire to bed and struggle to sleep. It was a feeling that had deserted me for a long time and with my imminent departure from the city the next morning, I conspired on how to steal one last moment with her before I left.
The next day I woke up early at 5. Too early perhaps, but I could not sleep. I took a shower, grabbed Dostoevsky and waited in the dining room. Except for the hostel receptionist absorbed in the computer, I was the only living soul there. If she had to go to work, she would be up early. If she did not and I had the misfortune of not seeing her one last, I would leave Dostoevsky at the receptionist to be given to her, with a message inside.
Though, the back-up plan did not have to be put into action. At about 7, she sauntered into the room, in a plain grey sweater and pants, slightly dazed at having just woken up. I greeted her and she asked me why I was up so early.
"I couldn't sleep", I admitted truthfully.
Thank God she did not ask why.
She prepared her toast and took her seat opposite me and we carried on talking that was interrupted by some moments of silence when neither party had much to contribute. My friends would walk into the room out of the blue and that guilty smile reappeared on my face at having been caught red handed. They politely sat at another table and I coaxed them to join me so that everything would appear normal. Then when she had to leave us to go to work, I queried hopefully, "Want me to drop you?"
In comparison to confessions of love, my request was nothing, but it in my own ways, it was an expression of interest and a chance to prolong her physical presence in my life. She took it. It was a cold, wet morning but I was wide awake and all warm inside as I started the car. Einstein was right. When you court a nice girl, an hour seems like a second and soon we arrived at her workplace. I shook hands with her and promised to keep in touch.
As I drove back, I thought, one more to the short list of could-have-beens.
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