Maithaly BanikSummer rain. Do I like it? When I am sitting inside a café, looking out as I wait for the hot coffee I
ordered and watching people run around for cover? Yes, I do like summer rain then. I like the wet
smell of the earth, the dogs brushing off the water under a shade and office workers hurdling in the
bus stand.
I watch as the cold air inside the café and the moist air outside make the window I am sitting beside
fog up. I want to trace my name on the foggy glass, like the little child on the other side of the room,
but I must refrain. My fingers trace the ink on the book I am reading. It is a romance novel that has
become famous on the internet. I look around for the server. He seems to be serving someone else.
The doorbell chimes as a man walks inside. My eyes look up at him, his hair is drenched. He smiles at
the server who walks over to him. They look around to find a table for him. The café is crowded, the
only seat available is the one on my table. I look down at the book when I notice them walking
towards my table. I have lost the part I was reading and my eyes wandered around, searching for the
words.
“Excuse me, mam,” I look up at the server, the man is a few steps behind him. He is smiling
sheepishly. “If no one is accompanying you, can this gentleman join your table while we wait for a
table to become unoccupied for him?” I lost the server halfway through his explanation. I pick up my
bag from the chair and sit it on the floor.
“Sure,” I nod to the man. Maybe I smile, but I am not sure. The server excuses himself to bring a
menu while the man sits down. I do not look up for a while, almost finding the part I left off on, but I
look up again when the man sneezes, loudly. He sneezes a few more times, bending up and down
every time.
I offer him the napkins from the table. He looks up, with tears in his eyes and a pink nose. He takes
the napkins and is about to say something when he doubles over and sneezes again, this time in the
napkins. I see water dripping from his hair and making a wet spot on the white tablecloth. I rampage
through my bag and offer him a towel.
He looks at me confused, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “Your hair is dripping wet,” I say
holding the towel towards him. “Dry it or you will catch a cold.”
“Thank you,” he mutters, a soft sound with a hint of hoarseness. He takes the towel and starts
rubbing his head. The server comes with my coffee and his menu. He utters another thank you and
rubs the nape of his neck.
Once his hair is relatively dry, he looks over at me, holding the towel, not knowing what to do with it.
I take it from his hand, our fingers brush for a second, and I put it back in my bag. He says thank you
again and looks at the menu. I take a sip of my coffee as he flips through.
“What do you recommend?” He catches me off guard, cup to my mouth. He looks at me and I stare
back for a moment not knowing what to say. “I am new here,” he continues, filling in the silence. “I
have never been to this café. So, what do you recommend I try?”
“Well,” I start placing the cup on the saucer. “You can try the cappuccino if you fancy a coffee. Or the
Dalgona coffee. You can also try their pastries, they are tasty.” I pause for a moment. “I personally
like their apple tart.” I do not know why I add the last comment. Maybe it was how he was looking at
me, with a mix of curiosity and admiration in his eyes.
He smiles and calls the server. I look down and feel myself heat up. Something about him was making
my heart beat faster, or maybe it was the coffee kicking in. “I would like a Dalgona coffee” he orders.
“Also get us two apple tarts, please.” My head shoots up at him. He is smiling. He has a dimple. “One
for me and one for the lady.”
I think I am blushing. I do not know this stranger and I should not feel flattered. He could be a
murderer for all I know. My mind is racing. There were cameras in the café. He would not dare do
anything here. I am safe for the time being. But I do not feel I am in danger. I feel at ease. I feel
comforted because of his smiles. I take a deep breath and a sip.
“What book are you reading?” He inquires after the server goes away with the menu. His hair was
drying up and the strands fell as curls over his temple. He looks young, around my age. Men around
my age do not read cheesy romance books, do they now?
“It’s called The Love Hypothesis” I fold the book to show him the cover of the cartoon characters
kissing. His eyes read the title. I keep the book down. An emotion passes through his face. I cannot
pin it. The look was, different. “Have you heard about it?” The cold breeze makes me shiver.
“Yes,” He blushes, I think. “I have read it. It is very famous.” I did not expect that answer. Maybe he is
mocking me. There is no way to find out. We sit there in silence. The rain is down to a drizzle now.
Soon, the café will start to empty out. He will probably get his own table then.
The server puts down his coffee and the apple tarts. “Enjoy.” He rubs his palms and holds the warm
cup. He is cute. I put the bookmark inside the book and keep it aside. He takes a sip of the coffee and
immediately holds out his tongue. I laugh under my hand.
“You should have known it was hot.” I tease him.
“But,” he whines, “I wanted to taste it.” I shake my head. He smiles. We sit in silence. “Which part are
you in?” He asks eyeing the book.
I think and answer, “On their Wednesday coffee date.” Just like us, today. I shake my head. What is
wrong with me?
“Are you a unicorn-Frappuccino-girl like Olive?” So, he has read the book.
“No, I am more of a two-shots-of-expresso-with-no-sugar-girl, like Adam” I smile.
“Why did you start reading it?”
“I got roped up in the internet craze. What about you?” another sip of coffee.
“Well, my sister was reading it one day and my mother caught her. The cover is quite scandalous for
the Indian mother.” He laughs, almost like a warm ray of sunshine. “She handed me the book to
throw it away. But I kept it. And read it.” He shakes his head and looks at me again. “Call it a guilty
pleasure.” He shrugs.
It is as if I am captivated by him. All his actions look so natural yet awkward. “Who is your favourite
character then?” I want to keep talking. I do not want the rain to stop.
“Adam, obviously” He finishes his coffee. “What about you?”
“Olive.” He hums under his breath.
“Please eat the apple tart.” He insists, pushing the plate towards me. I take two spoons and hold one
out for him. He takes it and digs into his tart. I too break the shell.
“Do you like it?” I ask in between bites.
He smiles and the sun peaks through the sky. “I love it!”
The doorbell chimes again. The rain has stopped. The family with the child who wrote ‘Riya’ on the
glass is going home. One table is free now. He can go and sit at his own peace. But he does not seem
to want to move. He eats the tart, enjoying every bite. I smile.
We talk for some time. Sitting inside the café while the sky paints itself in shades of red and purple.
The traffic is back on the streets. The dogs are searching for food in bins again. I hand over my phone
to him to get his socials. He does the same.
We talk about our lives and our love for books. We joke and we laugh. I think we become friends at
some point. We promise to stay in touch. We promise to meet again. We part ways at 7 o’clock.
I think about that day as I sit in my hospital gown. We have not talked or texted in a while now. The
operation had been successful and I was in perfect health to be discharged, the doctor says. I do not
know whose heart is now beating in my chest. My parents had filled in the paperwork. Also, the
donor is kept anonymous. As the doctors ask me to sign the discharge forms, I look at the files with
the donor’s details kept on the side of the table.
The doctor is called by the nurses for some reason. I find myself alone in the office. Curiosity makes
me peek inside the donor file. A picture is clipped to the file. It is that of a man with curls on his
temple and a warm smile that leaves a dimple. I stare as I cry. My heart, your heart, beats loudly
inside my chest. The summer rain begins to fall again.
writer.editor.GO_TO_TOPwriter.editor.GO_TO_BOTTOM
