He never liked my stories though he claimed to love me dearly. I always got excited whenever I wrote something new and read it for him but he did not like my writing stories. Whenever I used to read the last sentence of my story, he always squeezed his eyes, stared at me for a while, while I kept waiting for his response holding my breath, and laughed aloud. It never surprised me though every time I had some sort of expectation from him. After that, he always ordered two cups of coffee which I did not allow him to order before listening my story as it could divert his attention. ‘Story and coffee don’t mix well’ I used to say. After the story, we always discussed the story; I wanted to convince him he always tried to be unconvinced. During our discussion, he could have two or three more cups of coffee while I could never finish my single cup as I have to stay with my story and never let it be overshadowed by a person who never liked any. This happened every time I told him one but today I am pretty convinced that he is going to love my story as he loves me. I was waiting for him at the same coffee shop where we always used to sit. It was the far lonely corner of the café where we could not disturb others with our discussion which sometimes went a bit louder when he could not understand my point and holding my hand exclaimed his love for me. I am sitting here, in the same chair staring at his empty chair, thinking about the possibility of his arrival, listening my story and rejecting it again.
The waiter came to me twice for any order. He always takes our order. He is in habit of giving a generous tip to the waiter and the waiter always keeps this far corner vacant for us whenever we arrive. He was quite vigilant in this regard. The soft music is playing in the background and I am getting nervous with every passing moment as he never was late but today it is half an hour above the routine fixture of his arrival. The house is almost filled. There are familiar faces though I don’t know them, they also visit this café for spending quality time here.
Most of them were young college, university students who instead of going to parks where there are always chance that people would intrude their solitary discussions by staring at them in a strange way. The city has only a few places where young couple could spend some moments of solitude to open their hearts to each other. The café has its usual smell which always attracted me as this smell always reminds me of him and his bitter comments and the bitter coffee which he always liked and I always follow him. My eyes are fixed on the entrance and mind flying elsewhere with a lot of doubts and speculations. ‘What could make him so late? He is always in time. I was always arriving later than him but he never minds it.’ I uttered aloud. I am shocked as I am talking to myself. It is making me even more confused and worried. ‘To whom I shall read my story. I never tried it.’ I am thinking again. We are colleagues, teaching literature at the same university. I am planning to be a writer as I love stories or I love to tell the stories; the stories which haunt me. He does not agree to my protagonists who are always bold, brave and bossy at times. His idea of a woman is quite different than mine. He loves me. He never forgets my birthday, he always wishes me first, brings me beautiful and costly gifts. He always says that I am the most beautiful woman on this earth. And I am waiting for the day when he would stand up and clap for my story.
Unknowingly he was the center of all of my stories not as a character but I always addressed him in my stories. He has always been there in my stories without being there. He knows that too. But this time I do hope he will stand up and clap for my story. I signaled the waiter to bring a bottle of water for me in a manly manner. I was too busy in writing my story that I could not contact him for last couple of days. I kept tying and deleting my story on finding something that he could despise. He contacted me many times but I was too busy to respond. He always knew the reason when I am not contacting. He knew that I am writing those silly stories of mine. I had written this story with complete focus by shutting down myself into my room for many days. I could not attend university. I was there alone with my story or his story that he might like. I don’t know why it concerned me so much that he should like it. I have written many stories, you know, but I never tried to get it published. Never read them to anyone else. Never sent them to any publisher. I don’t know why I did this but it did happen to me that I was waiting for him to admire my story then I could move forward. Just at that moment when everything was going so fast I my mind. The sound of a slap brought me back. There is a girl who has slapped a boy. I don’t bother what happened between them but she was shouting at him.
No one bothered. They boy was fleeing from the scene to avoid any scene. I am thinking about the ending of my story. If the end would appeal him or not. The sound of the slap has evoked some laughter which is still echoing after the girl too has left the café. No one bothered what actually happened between them but all enjoyed the slap and yelling and crying and running and screaming. It is fun to witness such moments when people are in awkward situation. I want to yell and scream too but it is of no use to yell at an empty chair. I used to write in the university magazine teacher section. Had good feedback too but that was not fiction but critical essays. I was good at appreciating literary works but I never knew that a writer has to go through all this. I am unable to take a step from the very threshold of mine. He does not like my characters. He thinks that they are highly unromantic, colorless and lack vigor. They are too ugly and old for a young and beautiful lady like me. He always says. This time I have done exactly as he always wished. I have written his story not mine. What? I have written his story? Not mine? How? Why? How I could do that? Meanwhile I am folding the printed pages in my hands and put my elbows on the table staring at the empty chair. While drawing back, I hit the water bottle and the water is spilled all over the table. I am staring into the water and instead of choosing the tissue papers I am cleaning the table with the pages of my story and throw them in the dust bin. Then cleans the table again with the tissue paper. He is there at the entrance smiling and coming towards me. I am slipping my hand into my bag and wearing a ring before he actually notices it. He is apologizing for being late and I am still lost in my thoughts. He is asking me why I was not responding to his calls. I am showing him the ring in my finger to his shock. I am leaving the café. I am leaving him in the café. I am leaving the story in the dustbin and him in the café. No one is laughing though I yelled, I screamed and I slapped. All are telling each other, their own stories without noticing mine.