By Marzia Rahman
And almost canceled it, but it was nothing daunting or dreadful. Rather it was fun, just like old days—those green and gleeful days—when we were young and carefree, and I was naïve and not married.
Daniel said he was working in a multinational company called Brad and Brad. He looked charming as before and tall and matured. A little bit of weight had added to his charm. He said he was seeing Sara. Sara? Tall, thin, big glasses. Oh, yes. What did he see in her? No worries. He would fall out of love. Soon.
The music was changed at this moment—an English hip music replaced the old Bangla love song where the lover went to war and the girl waited every day and forever.
The waiter in yellow shirt took away the coffee cups and dirty plates. Daniel tipped him, he grinned gratefully, and I suddenly remembered Akram would come for lunch. I had to cook rice, fish and make a chutney of tomato and coriander. I had to go back home.
Daniel said we should meet again. Should we? I smiled, wishing life was less complicated with more freedom and no cooking or laundry or paying bills and the plants survived even if I forgot to water them for days and I didn’t have to lie to Akram.
We waited outside for some time, looking for taxis. Daniel left first, I stood alone, not wanting to go home, not yet; two rickshaws passed by, tinkling their bells. A cool soothing breeze blew, and it felt like the beginning of monsoon. But it was a hot summer, and I was done pretending to be happy.