It's not cold enough to wear a sweater but it's definitely cold enough to be hugged tightly.

We don't dance, but if we did now would be the perfect time.

The cane chairs are comfortable. The lights are yellow - my favourite kind. The liquids keep flowing and the food appears and disappears from the table in a flash. I am in an ideal place, a part of the conversation but not in a way great enough to be required to constantly contribute. 

People ask me about you, you know that already. They ask me about where you are and then they smile, drawing on some memory of you with them. A dinner, a meeting, something you said. There is a lot of warmth in this conversation. 

The stories that follow are stories that warrant posts in themselves. 

Far away and all that. Things I am not allowed to say. You know it all. 

I fell asleep in a sea of comfortable blankets, glowing from the night that had gone by. When I woke up, I woke up happy. 

The week isn’t quite over.

The dread of a working Saturday starts to fill you up mid-week. It settles in the pit of your stomach like a bad meal and stays there until Saturday afternoon. Throw in a deadline and an early morning jog, and you’ll find yourself keeling over in bed on Friday night, and not from a hangover like the other normal people with Saturdays off.

On every Friday which precedes a working Saturday, the same thoughts cross my mind. I ask myself the same questions, run the same excuses through my head to try and get out of all the stuff I am supposed to do. It’s almost like it’s a biweekly event, where everyone here stands around with dull faces, whining like as if it’s never happened before, about this unfortunate event coming their way. It’s like a sore mass of despair lined with envy, a few hundred people’s envy all balled up in one dark cloud.

The Saturday comes and passes us by like any other day. It isn’t half bad given that people are busy making Sunday plans. The Working Saturday, like all impending doom, is never as worrying as the build-up to it.

At the bottom of the bottle, we found our legs morphing into one another and the walls closing in on us. The floor was damp and the plastic glasses rolled around merrily.

The little green light in the room changed us. We became people from a different world, from a parallel reality, if only for a little while. The speakers, with angry wires snaking from there, played us songs that now laze around in my mind becoming witnesses to interesting memories.

Eleanor Rigby is one such song.

In the silence between two songs, we waited and watched the energy within the room rise and fall. I fell into a short, deep sleep only to wake up feeling like the world was mine to conquer and that nothing was unfathomable.

The sky began to turn pink, and the crows began to chatter. The room became comfortably quiet and we slept, gingerly walking into our comfort zones. 

In the morning, the room was just a room. And we went back to being ourselves. 

Almost-classy Friday nights.

Two eggs were cracked on the counter and the cracks were peered at.

While the delicious liquid yellow spread itself comfortably on the pan, we drank wine from paper glasses. We clinked the paper cups, without the sound of course, and said Cheers because that’s what we do.

We put in all sorts of things, because you know, we could. There was the brown onions and blue cheese. There were also leftover mushrooms from last night’s pasta. Someone said that the eggs wouldn’t be enough so we cheerfully dropped in two more, and a mass of sunshine hit the vegetables.

In the drawer next to the spoons, there were atleast a dozen packets of chilli flakes because they come free with pizzas and no one in the right mind throws away free stuff. We put that in, along with some free oregano, and cocked our heads and stuck our pinkies out, in a pretentious manner.

We argued noisily over whether the eggs were cooked or not. One of us, with little patience for loud voices and pointless suggestions, got mad and scrambled the eggs with a wooden spoon to shut the rest of us up.

They were little shreds of joy on our plates of course. We consumed them, with brown bread, all while discussing larger issues that affect our generation. It was all very grown up.