The roof.

It becomes one of those things. You walk by a place. You look at it. You sigh. You think of the good times. You whip out your phone; almost send a text- Wish you were here.

Remember last year? All the pretense about the cold. Bombay doesn't have a winter. Says who? Come home.
The tea is all cold. The hammock isn't used anymore. The books are still on the bedside, unread. They're all frozen in time. Do you know why?

Theirs was a winter affair. They were both writers; pretentious ones at that. They sat under a huge tree at the park and spoke about how much they loved the smell. That's pretentious; because they hated it. It took them three days to get to her roof. They spent those three days walking through the by lanes of the city. They shopped for clothes and shoes. Perfume and coloured socks. They didn't stop by trees. They didn't feel the need to be on their best behaviour. They ate at fancy restaurants and drank expensive wine. It took them three days and several credit card swipes to realize that the good times actually come with home-made ale and a bag of stale chips. That's when they climbed up to the roof.

They made it their little haven. Books and beer cans. Make shift hammock and crackling music. It became a routine. They'd eat out of plastic Ikea plates. It felt like a picnic; and not even a pretend one. They admitted that they had been lying a lot. People do that. You try and be the person that the other person likes. You tie your hair up and you eat with your mouth shut. They said they weren't the people they had said they were. They agreed to let it go.
They'd lie back and watch the stars form shapes in the sky. They didn't pretend to know them. It was nice.
On New Year's eve, they stayed in. He didn't go to his friend's farm house to smoke up. She didn't try and fit into the black dress that she had given up chocolate for. They stuck to the roof, like the stubborn lid of a cocoa jar.
Their time together was untouched by personal details. It would never be ruined by stray stories from the past. He'd never know why she was that thin. Bulimia was a close friend. She'd never have to hear about how his father abused him. That spell wasn't going to be broken.
They liked the comfort. The silence. The unfamiliarity. The scratchy conversations. The feeling of being themselves. They'd never done that before.
They didn't make love against a fireplace. It wasn't magical and slow. It was awkward and silent. It was nice.

The week ended and he packed his stuff. She stood at the edge of the roof, making rings of smoke. He lifted his hand in farewell from below. She waved back and put on her sweatshirt.


There were no promises to keep. No emails to send. No tear-stained letters to be preserved in pretty boxes. There were no names to whisper. There were no stories to relive. The roof hurt once in a while. It was surreal. These things don't happen to me.

It becomes one of those things. You hope that it will happen to you again; like chancing on your favourite song on the radio. But it almost always doesn't. You walk by a place and you stop.You stuff your hands into your sweatshirt pocket. You aren't even all that cold. Your insides hurt. You pull out your phone.

There are no numbers. But if there was one, there would be so much to tell. So much. Only silence would do it justice.