It had seemed so effortless, talking to him, in her day-dreams. How easily she would tell him her fears, her thoughts, her likes, how they would laugh together, how he would look into her eyes, and put his arm around her. Now, sitting across the table, she could feel his eyes on her as she sipped her drink, and she felt her cheeks burn. She fumbled for a topic to break the silence that was frequently intervening into the awkward conversation. When she looked up, he was eyeing the counter, perhaps at the pretty damsels crowding around the menu. She turned her head to look.

The comments she could come up with were so silly, though he did not seem to care. It was a good sign – he wasn’t bored. Even the silence felt nice, just sitting there with him, though she would kick herself later, for not saying a million things when she could see the reaction on his face. Speaking for hours over the phone had its magic, but drowning in his eyes was unequalled. 

An hour sped by, escaping her notice. The juice was over, the snacks were eaten, and the conversation that was picking up pace had not yet become stale. She glanced at her watch. There was no way she could stretch it for a few minutes more. She had to leave. 

“I should be going,” she said. She didn’t want to sound as though she was eager to go, nor to appear distressed at leaving him. 

“Is it seven already?” said he. The way he said it warmed her. They left the table. It was depressing, the actions signifying the parting. She had no clue when they would meet again. His eyes held a promise, but she could not bring herself to ask.

There was a crowd waiting for the elevator. They managed to squeeze in, and was pushed to the back of the lift as it started its journey down. She trembled as her hand brushed against his and a burst of electricity shot through her. She bit her lip to keep the blush from breaking out for all to see. She stole a glance at him, and saw his calm eyes on the lift display showing the floors they were passing. The crowd thinned as the lift descended, but they still stayed as they were, at the corner, hands gently touching, both pretending to be unaware.

Her cab was waiting. She had never felt so miserable to see one as she did then. 

She rolled down the window. He looked into her eyes. There was something more to say, something more to do. 

The cabbie started the engine, but he knew it wasn’t time to go yet. He waited. He saw the man at the window place his hand gently over the girl’s. When he bent his head, the cabbie looked away.

As the cab moved, her cheeks were in flames.

Pathetic, as usual – my attempt at writing romance falls Below Poverty Line again. Sigh. Imagining is one thing, elaborating is another. I would rather drop some hints here and there and leave the rest to the reader.