You remember how you choose the utmost corner table from where you can see the happy faces you hope you can endure and all the teary eyes you wish you could console, but yet, you are invisible to the entire universe? You do remember! You pick the tissue paper, pull out your pen and you chuckle to yourself saying not-for-wiping-only.
You look at the third table from the left. A young man leaning on the table on his elbows and palms held together, sporadically rubbing them. And his legs crossed under his chair. He’s nervous, you can say. He’s out, waiting for someone too beautiful and incredible and someone extremely important. Ten minutes later, you see a gorgeous girl walking towards him and that sole minute justifies his nervousness. Her smile, her grace. Check. You cannot hear them, neither have learned the art of lip reading, so you move your eyes to the table diagonally to yours.
An old man holding a paper in his hand, firmly. He probably doesn’t care about half the people or maybe all the people existing in the universe. He lets out sighs at first, sobs and breaks into tears. You wonder what is in the paper? Is it a letter? From his wife? His dead mother? Or his daughter? You wonder. You can go and console him, but you choose to let him cry.
You turn at the table on the right. A table for four shared by seven. That’s a life in its own. When you’re with your friends, luxuries are not necessities. You see them crack jokes and then some more jokes and then some more. Happy faces are bliss, you tell. And then your eyes fall on the tissue you’ve been fiddling since long, surprised when you wrote something with nothing on your mind. So you read it.
Like all these people around me, I’m searching for life in directions I’m not sure of, failing to realize you are but the life making me happy and content.
It’s been four years since I first experienced it. Will you let me experience it for the next four lifetimes?” You read it over and over again. Somehow, at the end, everything makes sense.