Her Own Story : A Short Story

She stubbed out another cigarette in an already cramped ashtray. Even her ashtray had taken to the city life; cramped yet comforting. She was a storyteller; she always has been. Even in her day jobs, through illustrations in ads and posters, she was able to paint a story that would resonate with the people who could read them.

She hadn’t updated her blog for a while now. She wanted to but a story imperfect enough to be mended, enigmatic enough to be thought about or even simple enough to be smiled at, hadn’t crossed her path in a long time.

“I am still waiting for your new story. Where have you disappeared?” – read one of the tweets on her pseudonym’s twitter handle.

“Where have I disappeared? Or I wish I really could!” The thought lingered on but she wasn’t going to let it take over. “Fuck it. Let’s see about that guy.”

If anything worthwhile has happened in the tech revolution, that took over the world, was Tinder. Meeting somebody, having a nice time, having sex and not pretending to care were four items on a girl’s wishlist which could never have been fulfilled in a single night if it wasn’t for the swiping sensation of an app.

There he was, already sipping on his beer!

“Hi!” She tried to invade his and his beer’s privacy.
“Oh Hi!” He replied, looking at his watch.

The ‘hi’ was more of an acknowledgment of her arrival than the pleasure of seeing her. It was surprising and new to her. She wasn’t the drop-dead gorgeous types but the right swipes out-numbered the left ones by a mile and a half.

“So you started without me?”
“Gender equality dude. Being late is rude and not gender-specific.”

She was already interested in the guy. Maybe, if nothing else, she could write about this guy in the next story of hers.

They talked about beer, Germany, Tinder, Northern Lights. They danced, drank some more, strolled and ate Meetha Paan. Kissed. Smiled. And caught their respective autos.

That was the most interesting date she has had in a long time. Five years from now and this guy, she would have been a missus. Maybe she was jumping the gun; maybe she wasn’t. Didn’t matter. Not the right time to fall and be in love.

The Sunday that followed was a familiar one. A mild headache from the hangover, the one spoon sugar in a mug full of coffee and a story waiting to be written.

She had a girl and a guy. She had the sparks that flowed between them. She had the kiss. Still she wasn’t sure if she should write about it. The dilemma wasn’t about the worthiness of the story; the dilemma was about making the emotion public.

Sure, nobody would know the face behind her pen-name, but the emotions would be bare naked for everybody to see. This feeling was one of the special ones, the ones that you share with your friend over phone or coffee and giggle about it. She decided to keep the story for herself. This one would be her own.

Breaking the chain of thoughts as always, was a twitter notification. An ardent fan of hers had sent her a message. It was about a similar blog she read and wanted her to check-out.

She clicked on the URL to have a look.

Her story was no more private.

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