The
elevator stopped at Level 7. As the doors opened, the Bachelor strode out
purposefully. He barely acknowledged the nods of ex-colleagues as headed
straight towards the Yogini’s department. His gait quickened with the
anticipation of seeing her.
The observant might have noticed the bright orange
socks he had worn specially for the occasion. It was her favourite colour. And
she had a sock fetish. The Bachelor didn’t believe in leaving anything to
chance. Chess. Yes. Poker. No. He tossed his gelled flowing locks streaked with
grey in what he assumed was a charming manner. To onlookers it came across as
trying a bit too hard. But then can love and longing ever be reasoned with?
He squared
his shoulders as he skidded to a stop near the Yogini’s workstation. He bared
his lips as pleasant memories of snatched afternoons and stolen nights spent
regaling her with his insightful (and humorous) takes on life, cricket
and Tantric Yoga came cascading back. And then he stopped baring his lips. The
Yogini wasn’t there. The Bachelor hadn’t been in touch for sometime. Anything
could have happened. Another agency. Another country. His gruff tone failed to mask
the unmistakable tremor in his voice as he asked the resident Mongolian ‘Where
is Yogini?’
The Mongolian who had already anticipated the question pivoted on his
heels and gestured towards Yogini’s current coordinates – the other corner of
the office. At that precise moment, she looks up from the other corner of the
office, and their eyes met. Even from that distance, she could see the gleam in
his eyes. Yogini sighed and glanced at her ring on her left hand. She should
have sent him an invite.