15-06-2025, 02:21 AM
A moment of guilt and anticipation
She stepped away from the window, suddenly aware of her bare feet on the floor.
Guilt edged its way into her awareness—not a loud reprimand, but a dull ache in the corners of her chest.
Her husband had called earlier that morning.
A routine check-in.
The usual update about his delayed return.
She had nodded through the conversation, her voice composed, her words kind.
He didn’t know.
And that thought alone made her heart tighten.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Not yet.
But not yet wasn’t the same as never, and she knew it.
This dinner wasn’t innocent.
Not entirely.
It was hope disguised as a meal.
A gathering of breath and questions and closeness.
And she was letting it happen.
She returned to the kitchen and stirred the simmering pot, steam rising in warm spirals that fogged the glass on her upper cabinets.
The space was quiet except for the soft bubbling of dal, the faint crackle of mustard seeds in ghee.
Her phone buzzed. A message.
Abhi: “Shall I come around 8:15?”
She stared at it for a second. Then typed, “Perfect.”
And then deleted it.
She typed again: “Come hungry ?” and hit send.
It was nearly 6:00 now.
She wasn’t dressing up.
Not really.
But she had chosen the dress for the evening.
Her hair would fall naturally.
Her bindi would be smaller than usual.
The details were quiet, but intentional.
And in the quiet of her thoughts, she asked herself again—what are you really hoping for tonight, Meghana?
But no clear answer came.
Only a flutter.
A breath held too long.
Then the doorbell rang.
She looked at the clock again—6:48.
Too early for him.
She wiped her hands on the towel, walked over to the door, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement tightening her steps.
And opened it.
---
She stepped away from the window, suddenly aware of her bare feet on the floor.
Guilt edged its way into her awareness—not a loud reprimand, but a dull ache in the corners of her chest.
Her husband had called earlier that morning.
A routine check-in.
The usual update about his delayed return.
She had nodded through the conversation, her voice composed, her words kind.
He didn’t know.
And that thought alone made her heart tighten.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Not yet.
But not yet wasn’t the same as never, and she knew it.
This dinner wasn’t innocent.
Not entirely.
It was hope disguised as a meal.
A gathering of breath and questions and closeness.
And she was letting it happen.
She returned to the kitchen and stirred the simmering pot, steam rising in warm spirals that fogged the glass on her upper cabinets.
The space was quiet except for the soft bubbling of dal, the faint crackle of mustard seeds in ghee.
Her phone buzzed. A message.
Abhi: “Shall I come around 8:15?”
She stared at it for a second. Then typed, “Perfect.”
And then deleted it.
She typed again: “Come hungry ?” and hit send.
It was nearly 6:00 now.
She wasn’t dressing up.
Not really.
But she had chosen the dress for the evening.
Her hair would fall naturally.
Her bindi would be smaller than usual.
The details were quiet, but intentional.
And in the quiet of her thoughts, she asked herself again—what are you really hoping for tonight, Meghana?
But no clear answer came.
Only a flutter.
A breath held too long.
Then the doorbell rang.
She looked at the clock again—6:48.
Too early for him.
She wiped her hands on the towel, walked over to the door, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement tightening her steps.
And opened it.
---
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