There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the.....

A sheaf of papers, white, neatly held together by a clip and a couple of sharpened pencils at the edge of the desk, like obedient children at the morning prayers in a school, neatly lined up against each other. He set the steaming mug on the other end, such that the virgin sheets of paper would not stain, were he to push it accidentally. The curtains were slightly drawn, the sun spilling over onto his desk, but again, in a way that would not blind him while he worked.

That would be him in a nutshell. Well-organised, practical, each action deliberated upon carefully and rationally before executing it.

He began his calculations, the market looked good. (He had a passion for stocks and shares, just like his dad before him). He was a trifle disturbed today too, for he was a little short on money now, with most of it tied up in various companies, but he so desperately wanted to invest in the promising and upcoming BioSys venture.

Done with the figures, he was doodling now. Thinking about Meera, the argument the evening before. She was too soft, almost irrational, prone to lapses of uncalled-for-sentimentality, a characteristic that irritated him often. Neat squiggles, as systematic chaos as you would ever get to see. He was not too bad an artist. Gradually, almost unknowingly he began replicating the face on his paper, that of the Managing Director of BioSys on the cover of the Business Today journal that lay on the table.

The chair creaked as he leaned back to admire. The sketch had come out good, the features well-defined, the lines etched deep, in some places the pencil had even cut through the paper. Something was amiss though. His version of the Director looked unusually stern.

He pushed back his chair in haste, alas it was too late. A sudden gust of wind had got the curtain swirling, the latter thwacking the cup of coffee. The brown brew was all over the table, a few drops spurt forth, onto the sketch, onto his trousers. He reached for the swab of cotton in the drawer and began dabbing the paper frantically, in the process blurring the sharp contours slightly.

He was apologetic towards Meera over the phone later that evening. The incident that afternoon had in some ways, changed his opinion about her. She had the capacity to fill up a void, he never knew existed till then. She would be his cushion, offer him respite, from the darts that life was bound to hurl at him one after the other.

The Director had almost smiled at him after the last cotton ball had been thrown into the bin. Mellow expressions now, the wool had certainly done the needful.

He had so much to learn yet and so much to appreciate. He hadn't accounted for the curtain, tossing the cup over. He hadn't accounted for times when Meera would be needed to clean up the mess.


Current Music: You and I - the Hutch jingle
(A utopian setting, excellent guitar strumming to accompany it)