There and Back Again.

This is just part of a story I'm working on. Hopefully I'll get back to writing as soon as these exams (ugh) are over. 

It's a coffee house; just another franchise that's about half as old as the country we live in. But this is Karachi and every time a new brand name opens up, whether it's a restaurant or a sporting goods store, Karachiites will faithfully flock to it in droves in hopes of discovering something-anything-novel. This one is no exception. Never mind if the coffee is drab and shockingly overpriced, the place is upscale enough to brag to your one-dimensional friends about. And it has some redeeming points. The parfaits. The ambience. The décor is perfect. If I were an architect, I'd probably describe it as a fusion of the classic and the contemporary, or something equally fancy. There's a wood-paneled wall across from me fitted with a bookshelf housing covers ranging from Charles Dickens to Herman Melville. I'm tempted to go over and check if they're actual books or just fake book jackets; so much is just an illusion these days. Lacquered coffee tables, and plush black sofas that melt to your touch. Yes, despite the coffee, I'm glad I came here.

Our friends arrive one by one, filling the places around me, until only the one directly opposite is empty. Great. I'm so nervous. Why are you late? You always used to show up early all those years ago, well two years ago, really. But it seems so much longer than that. This prolonged wait is agonizing and silly. I can feel the tension building up to a point, the climax when you'll finally walk in. Wouldn't it be swell if the radio started playing Eye of the Tiger at that exact moment? You always said that was your theme song. And suddenly, without warning, I see you. You're walking past the glass front towards the entrance, just as tall as I remember. You walk with your shoulders hunched. That tread is so familiar; I can't see how I ever forgot it. Now you're stepping inside. Clearly, you don't need the soundtrack to Rocky at all; it would never have done you justice. You bring your music with you. A casual hello, and finally you're sitting across from me. Finally. After two and a half messed up years of Skype calls, phone conversations and Facebook messages, the useless fights and the wasted love, you are here.  We are in the same country, the same city, heck, the same room. I can't stand the physical proximity. I need to breathe. I force myself to think respiration. Think oxygen. Inhale. Get that CO2 out of your system. Exhale. If I had any doubts about selecting this particular coffee house before, they disappear entirely once you're seated. You go so well with this place, like you were made for its tastefully decorated interior. You're wearing a blue jacket over a plain white shirt, baggy jeans underneath, and it complements the dark-hued furniture. I know we don't traditionally describe men as beautiful but I don't think I've seen anyone more so. Or anything more heartbreaking.

And before I know it, I'm thinking 'Shit, she gets all this. She gets that thick mop of hair falling over your face those nerdy glasses the stubble across your chin your long hands your solidness she gets that voice that sounds remarkably like Pitbull at times your crazy uncontrollable laughter she gets your random philosophical moments your stinginess when it comes to birthday gifts your ManUtd obsession shit shit shit shit shit shit'. I can't believe it. Here I am dying on the inside, and she gets it all without even asking. I'm phasing out; I'm looking anywhere but at you. I can feel myself withdrawing from this coffee house into a dark corner in my head. I get up fumbling, and make an excuse to go to the washroom. I shouldn't have come. I stare at my miserable reflection in the mirror, why the hell did I come? I don't rightly know. And I can't afford to waste time since you're leaving in an hour and I know this time will truly be the last. Obviously, I'm sick to the core. I've been listening to too much of Rihanna's Love the Way You lie and I've developed a masochistic taste for good old unavailable you. Yeah, I'm okay with the pain, as long as you're the one causing it. Goddamn you.

I wash my face, wipe my hands, and head back to the table.

We order. You get coffee. I ask for a parfait, because Donkey from Shrek the Movie is right; Parfaits probably are the most delicious thing on the whole damn planet.

As the afternoon progresses and I polish off the glorious mixture of yogurt and berry I've been served, I feel like I'm on the verge of an epiphany. It has become clear to me that you're too comfortable with the way things are. And, as one of our friends has conveniently pointed out, let's face it, you're immature. Nothing seems to matter to you. You snort with laughter as you throw ward stories around; the first time you got to see a caesarian operation, the time you were studying the female reproductive system and were caught by some elderly matrons who hysterically claimed you were destined for hell. I know you so well. I've known you and loved you in your worst moments and in your best. I know your hopes and dreams and fears, as clichéd as that sounds. So why can't I recognize my best friend in you? Meeting you has always made me feel this way...like I'm desperately searching for something frustratingly close, but which evades me time and time again. Yes you're too comfortable with life to do anything about us, just as you were two years ago. It's unbelievable how you can do something as casual as sit across from me, joking and laughing and talking about your friends back in college, when you know exactly how I feel. Oh this is going to give me hell later, I know. This day. The afternoon sun slanting across your face. The clothes I meticulously picked out for this ridiculous occasion. I'm going to carry it around in the pit of my stomach like a rock for the rest of my life.

My cell phone buzzes. Once. Twice. My mom knows where I am and who I'm with and her patience with her daughter's masochistic behaviour has obviously reached its limit. Time to go, I tell you. You don't seem very pleased. Could it be that you still care? All of it is beside the point. You're still engaged. She will always win. After all, she is your family's approved choice and who am I? No one. Just somebody you had a thing for back in school. Just somebody who will always love you. Never again. Last time. Goodbye. The words chase each other around my head, working up a storm. How I manage to turn my back on you, cross the street and get into my car, I have no idea. All I know is that I'm zipping through the streets of this ancient city, moving much too quickly, my heart breaking at last.