“Is this 007?” Asha teased, a playful grin tugging at her lips.
“Come again?” the voice requested.
She cleared her throat, leaning into the sudden burst of impulse. “Am I speaking to Mr. Bond?”
“Yes, you are,” he replied.
Her internal cinematic orchestra screeched to a tragic halt. “What?!”
“I am James Bond,” the tone shifted to deep, weary exasperation. “My parents are Lance and Jessie Bond, and my brother is Steve Bond. Do you have a problem with that? What do you want?”
At forty and fabulously single, Asha had simply been looking for a spark of weekend excitement. Rummaging through old keepsakes, she had unearthed a faded travel itinerary from a long-forgotten Lakshadweep trip. On a reckless whim, she dialed a random phone number scrawled in the margins, hoping for a thrill.
Instantly, her imagination had taken flight, envisioning a Pierce Brosnan lookalike and herself—a radiant beauty in a jaw-dropping evening gown,jet-setting globally, commanding military tankers, and somersaulting over international borders.
“Your cake is ready, sir,” she improvised, her heart racing. “Where do I deliver?”
“Did my brother order that?” The mystery voice chuckled, suddenly warm and melodic. “Don’t bother coming all this way. Just give me the address, and I’ll pick it up.”
Eager yet cautious, she gave him the address of the Baskin-Robbins across from her house. She rushed inside, bought a flawless heart-shaped ice cream cake, and had them write: Happy Birthday, Bond.
Just as the icing dried, a short, bald man shuffled up to the counter. Asha’s stomach plummeted. A vague recollection from that past vacation flooded back—a creepy tourist whose predatory stares and suffocating cologne had haunted her for a week.
“I’m here for my cake. Just spoke to someone from here,” he told the receptionist.
Asha stepped backward, horrified by the cruel punchline of her own prank. Please, universe, no.
Then, a deafening blast tore through the afternoon air.
The front glass shattered into a million glittering shards. Thick smoke and blinding dust engulfed the bakery, throwing Asha violently to the floor. Paralyzed by fear, she shielded her face.
Through the suffocating haze, the man—who had been quietly standing at the far end of the counter—sprang into action. With fierce, unyielding strength, he gripped Asha’s hand and dragged her through the flying debris. Shielding her body with his own back from falling chunks of concrete, he pulled her into a secure shelter beneath the heavy counter.
Wrapped in his tight, protective embrace, Asha listened to the world fracture outside. She could hear the frantic, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He smelled faintly of vanilla, strawberry ice cream, nothing like the tourist.
He looked down, his eyes dark with fierce concern as he brushed a layer of grey dust from her cheek. “Are you alright?” he murmured.
She nodded, entirely speechless. As the sirens began to wail in the distance, a profound realisation washed over her. The number she reached was wrong. The person who answered wasn’t.
495 words Jaya Krish
