Pieces of fiction

December is a revolutionary month: an incomplete story.

“You, me, and a cup of coffee,” he said.

“I don’t like to share,” I asserted.

“What?” he looked confused.

“You said a cup of coffee which implies that we will be drinking out of one cup. I like my coffee in a particular way and I don’t like to share,” I tried to explain.

“I like my women in a particular way and I know when it comes to you I’d never want to share,” he slammed the debate shut, wittily.

If these are ever the first few sentences that two people share then life is surely full of pleasant surprises.

He turned to walk away as if no such words were just spoken and I didn’t know what to make of the short-lived dialogue anymore.

Sometimes, speaking less says more. This was my way of making peace with his matter-of-fact attitude.

It’s a very rare occurrence for someone to intrude with such genuine confidence. I’ve seen confidence, lots of it but never the real thing.

His was a confidence which didn’t need to speak of itself to convince you. He gave just the right amount to keep himself appealing yet spiced with a dash of vulnerability.

“In a particular way”.

I thought of that twice and thrice. How particular? But I knew better than to ask right away.

It was a matter of days before I threw up the two words like a bad case of food poisoning.

“How so?” I asked randomly.

“Excuse me?” he looked more confused than the first time.

“How particular? Do you like your women, I mean. Because you said—,“ I was cut off midway through my interrogation. Negative points for the interruption.

“You’ll find out, December is a revolutionary month,” he replied mysteriously.

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