Just that night – He was mine

I checked the indicator, as usual becoming impatient; these locals are never on time when he caught my eyes.

I suppose he too was going home like me, how else would he be in his formals? He was trying to loosen that tie.

He had brown eyes, six feet (maybe, I guess, he was tall, I like tall men), cheeks shaved close, and he was wearing glasses. I too wear glasses but not when I travel, it is only to read and write but these glasses suit him.

I was tired, and in my agony, the Western Railway announced: "Regret the delay, the local on platform number four runs twenty minutes late".

This time, to my surprise, he sat right next to me on this red bench. I heard a creak when he sat down. It is not big at all, thin rather. He has to hit the gym every morning; I thought when he turned to me. Did he read my thoughts? Did he catch me looking at him? I should have been careful I can not love a man, but the opposite is fair enough. A man can propose but not a woman. The standards of society; sigh!

"Hi, it looks like you're jaded," he smiles

I tried to look serious and said, "Yes, these trains, these delays put you in a bad mood, I want to go home"

"Coffee with me, even if I'm tired," he smiles

How I like this unilateral smile, no I'm in love with him and that's for sure.

Desperate not to look too inquisitive, I said, "There is a point of sale near Marine Drive, I like this place, let's go"

I was unable to control my euphoria when I saw him pick up his backpack, removing this hated tie when he got up.

I'm in love
We were going down to this outlet, I knew it was far enough and I will be late, that twenty minutes late will now be twenty hours late.

The sea breeze was soothing, my hair stroked my face as he turned around and said, "I love your hair, do you always lose it? Do not you tie them up?

Why did he have to talk about my hair, can not he say he loved me, but again I'm a woman, I can not tell a man, I love him.

"Yes, I attach them to work, but otherwise I let them lose, I have a headache, I hate hairclips," I replied, smiling

I did not know we had crossed this cafeteria and now we have reached Marine Drive. The music of Jazz by the Bay was quite loud, the classic rocks make me crazy and with him, I felt like Scarlett Johansson.

"So what are your hobbies?" He asked, lighting the cigarette.

"To love you", I almost said but again I am a woman so I must be serious. "I like to sing, I like to dance, but I hate to read and I also hate writers" sigh, wish he understands me.

He blew the puff and looked me straight. Oh my God, he looked like George Clooney.

At that time, we were sitting on those rocks by the sea, he said "So sing a song"

A shame myself I sang "Look in my eyes, you will see, what you mean for me, Seek your heart, Seek your soul, and when you find me there you will not look anymore Do not tell me that it is not worth trying, you can not tell me that it's not worth dying, you know it's true, all I do, I do it for you "

Why did I have to sing this song? I really did not know. He receives a bad signal. I should not run after a man. God, help me please, he should not read my thoughts.

"Bryan Adams, so you like him, I love his voice too, so we have similar thoughts," he said, staring at me.

"No, I love you", I wanted to say but again I should be careful.

"Yes, I am a crazy fan of Adams and Guns N'Roses". I answered

"I love to see the moon at night, the stars, my hobbies read, I write and then I prefer loneliness," he replied, playing with pebbles

How silly, I sit next to him, instead of praising and talking something romantic, this man says: moon, stars, writing. Did I not tell him that I hate writers, damn it? There is no point in loving this man.

"You know that I write poems, I write articles, I wrote a book but I also work to supplement my income," he says, then he told me a poem by Shesher Kobita of Tagore.

"Are you a Bengali?" I asked, somewhat surprised.

"Yes I am," then he told poems by Joy Goswami, the one I liked about Megh Balika.

We had to sit for six hours while singing and telling poems when