The aroma of garlic butter and mushrooms clung to the air, coating the damp windowpanes. Dev plated the blistered cherry tomatoes. Seeded garlic bread. Hand-rolled fettuccine. Her favourites.
The front latch clicked.
Aarohi stepped inside, rain catching in her dark hair. She froze at the sight of the table, then walked over to slide her arms around his waist. “Did you break my favourite bowl again?”
“Can’t a man just cook for his wife?”
“Fettuccine on a Tuesday?” She forked a strand, slid it into her mouth with a contented hum. “You’re ridiculous. But I love you.”
No candles. No grand setup. Just Desi-Italian on kitchen granite. Aarohi talked between eager bites, while Dev listened to the familiar pauses in her voice, saving them like a man packing fragile glass.
When she started clearing the plates, he caught her wrist, drawing her into his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder, fingers tangling lazily in his curls. He framed her jaw between his hands, thumb tracing the mole on her chin before kissing her…Slow. Deliberate. Tasting of basil, rain and unspoken promises.
He carried her into the bedroom, never once breaking the kiss. As if her lips were the only anchor keeping him upright in the storm. They moved together in the dark, holding each other in a wordless closeness.
*******************************
Aarohi woke to gray morning light filtering through the blinds. Memory of the night before flooded through her, flushing her skin warm. She slid into his discarded shirt, breathing in his familiar scent. Cedar and laundry soap.
“Dev? Tea ready?”
A strange stillness settled in her chest when her eyes fell on a paper on the nightstand. She unfolded it with fumbling fingers.
Aarohi,
That rainy Tuesday, five years ago. You were stranded under the flyover with a dead phone. You’d borrowed a vendor’s phone. Dialed your flatmate from memory. Misdialed a single digit, got me instead. You hesitated, then asked, ‘Will you stay on the line until my bus comes?’
I did. For twenty-two minutes. Rambled about petrichor and soil bacteria, just to hear you breathe. Just to make sure you weren’t alone in the dark.
The bus came and you whispered, ‘Wrong number…But I’m glad it was you,’ before hanging up. I stayed awake all night trying to decode those words.
Next day, you called again. Not a misdial this time.
Sandwiches. Sudokus. Sleepless in Seattle on rainy Sundays. You became my entire world, Aaru. Thought…I was yours too.
Yesterday, your phone lit up when you were in the shower. Preview from Kabir read, ‘Can’t get yesterday afternoon out of my head. Stolen hours with you are never enough.’
I didn’t ask. Couldn’t bear to watch you lie.
Wanted one last night of us. The way it was supposed to be. Before accepting what was always true.
P.S. Maybe I was just a wrong number after all…
Hot salt stung her eyes as her shaking thumb pressed his name.
The number you’ve dialed is switched off.
