The couple sat under a bunch of baby palm trees.
Turned towards each other. Still in their office clothes. Her bag behind her, his rucksack near his feet.
The after-dinner walkers, the health freaks, the dog owners, the stragglers, the fresh air seekers, the giggling friends, the boys who came to watch the giggling friends. They all passed them.
But the couple had eyes for no one else.
His arm was around her. Her face was on his shoulder. Inches away from each others lips.
This is where they came every evening. To spend an hour. Stuck to each other, wrapped up in each other. So close and yet so far.
The Baristas were too bright. The Cafe Coffee Day chairs were too apart. Movie theatres were perfect. But everyday? Impossible ya, too pricey.
So till then the promenade was where they dreamt.
She, of a cute one BHK, backless blouses, kids, dandiya parties, cooking for him.
He, of the size of her breasts.
So it continued. Some times, a curious walker, or an old man with nothing better to do stared at them. But they kept meeting. Kept hiding under the palms. Kept dreaming.
Then they got married.
And she got a one BHK in Dahisar, backless blouses, two kids, one dandiya party, and 3 meals a day that she had to cook.
He got a 34 D.
* Today is Phil Collin’s birthday. No, I don’t usually keep track of it. But the lady on AIR FM sounded particularly jubilant when she announced it this morning.