Falling In Love At Coffee Shop Or How this lousy writer creates stories

Falling In Love At Coffee Shop
Or
How this lousy writer creates stories.

"I think that possibly maybe I have fallen for you.
Yes, there is a chance that I have fallen quite hard over you."

This is how the song starts inside my six month old inspirational-ever-fighting headphone. Inspirational because - it always fights to exist a day more in spite of enduring this last stage of horrible lymphoma, which is a fancy word for cancer, I love to use fancy words (disregarding their literal meaning sometimes). Anyways, it is going to lose the left side soon. I need a million facebook likes to save my headphone.

'Cancer doesn't kill you, the will to survive a day more does', it says. Sometimes I have to insert fancy quotes a little here and there with a hope that maybe someday people can make tshirts out of them.

A beautiful girl just sat at the table that is facing me. I do not like cafes with the tables that face me - I do not want to advertise muscular circuses I host when I eat certain things.

Her eyes are blue and she is looking at me. Probably because of my t-shirt that says 'Hushhh! Writer at work here.' I am a show off.

I just smiled at her.

'What are you listening to?' She mouthed.

'Do you want to listen?' I mouthed back.

'Yes.' She replied.

I am dragging the chair to her. I so wish that it stops making that foul noise. I am attracting attention here.

Why is she giggling now? Was the noise too bad? What did I do? The nervous side is taking toll on me.

‘For a writer, you know nothing about science. I won’t condemn you for that, though. How do you think that this seat arrangement is going to favor us sharing headphones?’

‘Sometimes, where science doesn’t fit, common sense triumphs.’ I replied. Another t-shirt there.

‘Fancy. Do you want me to print a tshirt with that?’ She condescendingly replied.

How does she know about the tshirt?

‘What common sense are you going to pitch?’

‘How about using the loudspeaker?’ I framed a rhetorical question like a triumphant conqueror.

“If I wouldn’t know you, I would rather not know.
If I wouldn’t have you, I would rather be alone.” The song is in its best part. I have to hurry.

‘Do you want everybody to look at us?’ She asked.

‘Do you want to listen to the song or not?’ I asked back.

Her hair probably smells like the shampoo she used. Why do I find it enchanting, though? I can feel the law of attraction systematically conquering my common sense now.

“Lagaweli jab Lip Stick
Hilaaile Saara District
Zila Top Laalelu
Kamariya”

How did the freaking song change?

Damn, I should have used the headphone.

In my defense, I cannot resist how catchy this song is. I do speak against sexualisation and commodifying of women but I think few things demand exception and for me this song is the one. I do not know why it still lingers in my playlist – the fact, as a matter of fact, haunts me and now I am totally making fool of myself. She is laughing hysterically. Her breath smells like, I don’t know, it smells like defeated common sense. Maybe?

I am in love with her.

‘Don’t worry Sudeep. I still listen to ‘Udreko choli’.’ And she continued laughing.

I have been in love with her since we first attended the orientation seminar of a Creative Writing course back in 2015. She has always been ‘A beautiful girl who sat next to me’ to me. But today, it is a different day because I cannot resist being in love with her anymore. The words have to come out. The time has come; the writer should speak the words he has been crafting for her – because of her.

‘I must clarify that I am totally against commodiying women and also aggressively against deducing them down to semi-nude entertainers.’ I defended myself, instead. The writer sucks.

‘Don’t explain. You are making me laugh.’

‘I shall continue nevertheless, I am awfully embarrassed. But somehow I cannot stop myself from appreciating the lyrical, and indeed musical, genius involved in giving life to ‘Kamariya….Kamariya….Kamariya’.” I added to strengthen my defense.

‘Lopa Lop, Lollypop Laagelu.’ She added. I think we are the victims of the same lousy, nevertheless, catchy song. I am in love with the irony we mutually share.

Meanwhile, I still haven’t left my seat. She is facing me and I am numb, like always.

‘This is not love, this is cowardice.’ My brain is revolting.

She is still sitting facing me. I wish she could witness my imagination. I have no other way to show her how much I love her.

Something is pushing me.

I am dragging the chair. She is still looking at me. The chair is still making that foul noise even in reality. I am sitting opposite of her now. I am shivering. I don’t know what I am doing.

‘Hey, umm, Supriyana.’

‘Hey, Sudeep. How are you?’

‘I am uhh..uhh…’ Panic attacks.

‘Sudeep?’

‘I think I need to tell you how much in love I am with you, If that makes sense.’

‘Huh.’ Didn’t she hear that? What does ‘huh’ mean? Does that mean ‘no’?

‘There is no poem I haven’t written for you. I would even refuse to dream the dreams that were not about you. But in real, I fail to express. I am lost in these strands of ‘Umm’ and ‘Uhhs’. I can’t stand being in love with you anymore. I want to be loved by you. I demand reciprocity. I know it sounds selfish. But.’

‘But.’

‘I am a writer, turn me into a man.’

‘Should I make a t-shirt out of this line?’

‘What?’ How does she know about the t-shirt?

‘For a writer, you don’t know how the words ‘I love you’ work.’

‘What?’ What is she saying?

‘You could have just said those three words and I would have still melted in your arms.’

‘I do not get it.’ I am puzzled. I was expecting nothing more than a cell in a friend-zone.

‘You don’t know how many times I have imagined sharing your headphone, Sudeep.’ Is she saying that?