I took a seat next to him in the café and we met as old friends. Perhaps we were born ahead of our time. Had I been younger, had he been younger, maybe what I really want us to be would have been a lot more acceptable. But as luck would have it, we were stuck in a time meant for the conventional. For the longest time, neither of us spoke. We both knew about the spark that had existed between us so long ago, and as age turned us wiser, we recognised the inappropriateness of our passion. Although, a small part of me was analysing if that spark still existed. I recognised with dread that I was hoping he did too. Condemnation and guilt and hopelessness clouded my mind, as I saw the wrinkled hands in front of me, right next to my own. Can I touch them? Should I hold them? Will it be acceptable? Restraint was never one of my strong suits.
I move my hand a little closer, precariously, till our fingers brush against each other for a fraction of a second. He immediately withdraws. Heartbroken, I can see the marks of his wedding ring fading away, a sign that he had taken it off long ago. Was she dead or were they divorced I didn't know, all I knew was that he was still living in a time that forced him to marry her. He still deemed our love unworthy, unconventional, unacceptable. Reeling from this shock, I take my hands off the table. I stare into the nothingness for the longest while before I realise that two minutes have passed and neither of us have said a word. Mustering all my strength, I decide to break the ice.
"Hello Nathan", I say.
"Hello Anthony", he says.
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