Ramya Sethuraman

Our red table

That was our table. All shiny and red and exciting but if you looked closely, you would see the cheap plastic falling apart in the corners, one of the legs was wobbly and it was placed close to the door. I remember feeling annoyed at the blast of cold air that would hit our face when someone walked into the café. Come to think of it, the table was much like you and me. But, it was our table and that was all that mattered to me in those days. I can’t really remember why we picked that particular table on our first date. We just did and after that, that drafty old corner became ours. Do you remember that you touched me first sitting at that very table? You sort of sneaked your hand to pick up the plate and when your fingers grazed mine, you let them remain there for a moment before drawing them away. I remember the silent blush that rose up your cheeks when that happened. But, we were just sixteen then. What did we know of love really?...