Wooden flooring. Wooden furniture. Muted colours and yellow lights. Sunday. Coffee date. With myself. And some untold stories.
Father and son in the diagonal corner. Quiet middle aged son and a cranky looking father. Giving life advices. Maybe finding faults in the way he has been working on his finances.
A newly married couple on their right. Their dewy eyes. The way her mehndi clad hands brush against his. Unknowingly. Or rather knowingly. The eagerness in him to see her eyes smile.
On the next. A college group of four. Too busy in their own selves. The only worry is attendance in the college enough to let them appear for the exam. Crushes. On friends. And teachers too. An overwhelming age. When everything seems possible. When your friends are your therapists and relationship experts.
Four friends again on the next table. Girl gang. Women who hold you at the time of your first heartbreak and also save you from your fashion disasters. Women who share the same impulse of buying shoes. May be bags too. Of choosing wrong guys as well? May be.
Farthest corner. Strangers. I can guess from the stiffness in their body language and also from the regular hot cappuccinos on the table. A chain marketing effort. There are pens and notepads. Ferocious scribbling. ‘For example, if you invest …’ a voice from that table.
Exactly opposite. An occasional look around the room. An occasional longing to hear what others are saying. But mostly in his own self. With his laptop and headphones. Like me. Probably a loner. Like me.
The place smells of coffee. And of untold stories. Only if you are keen to smell. The smell of brewing strong family bonds, of fizzy new love, of warm friendships, of promising business opportunities and of being complete in oneself.
Sunday. Coffee date. With myself. And some untold stories.