Ice Cream

This afternoon,

I learnt

a scoop of ice cream

can be an unbearably long stretch of time.

This was supposed to be our treat —

to us,

from us,

for being us.

And yet,

here we were,

divided

by three scoops of Belgian chocolate.

She has never settled for one.

I have always found

two of the same

too lingering, 

and two different, 

too distracting.

We have rituals like that.

Like never having a meal

at the dining table,

always on the bed,

while trying to figure out

what should accompany us

from dinner

to dreamland.

She's never managed

to finish a movie,

let alone

a television series,

unbothered by sleep,

unhinged in determination.

She's a woman

of iron will,

make no mistake.

But the moment

food reaches

her stomach,

iron

remembers

how to melt.

I, on the other hand, 

am compulsive, 

in my need to see beginnings end.

We have rituals like that. 

Like how,

when she says

she wants coffee,

what she really wants

is coffee-flavoured milk.

She calls that abomination

coffee,

and calls coffee

an abomination

of humanity.

She has never quite understood

how anyone

could willingly savour bitterness, 

and yet

she chose

to go to bed

every night

with a man

who drinks

his coffee black,

as though

there were no other way.

She calls me

a psychopath

for that.

I call her

a psychopath

for sleeping

with her mouth

open wide enough

that an entire civilisation

of mosquitoes

could walk right in,

and walk right out, 

their stomachs full, 

fat with gratitude.

Today,

for the first time,

I met

a lazy Friday.

Even an empty one.

I never knew

Friday afternoons

could contain

so much silence.

And even though,

following ritual,

she spilled

ice cream

on her dress,

today

wasn't the day

I could laugh about it.

How could I,

having fought

with her

seventeen minutes earlier?

This is one

of our rituals too.

Our conversations 

and confrontations 

have always 

been married 

to each other,

the way

we are,

on the days

we aren't fighting.

Conversations,

if left unattended

for more than

twenty-one minutes,

have a peculiar habit

of becoming

confrontations.

Then

I blame her.

Then

she blames me.

Then

we both take turns

blaming ourselves,

while quietly insisting

the other

started it.

Then come

the apologies,

still pointing fingers,

only softer

than before.

Neither of us

ever remembers

the precise moment

the accusations

stop making sense,

and affection

quietly resumes

its ordinary duties.

Every time

we fight,

I discover

newer truths

about ice cream.