(This is a work of fiction. The writer gives to the reader the liberty to post this work anywhere online but not with wrong credits. Also, any form of printing or publication is prohibited without prior notice.)

[Short Story]

The vapor rises in an abstract shape, dancing on a silver lining, the edge of the cup. A shade of grey in front of the brown wooden interiors of the room. Her coffee is still hot. She likes coffee, prefers it over other drinks, perhaps.

Everything looks a little humid and soft, like the tips of her fingers as she holds the pen near her face while she looks outside the window, thinking and absent-mindedly noticing the unmowed greenery in the garden.

She is writing something, maybe a story. But what could the story possibly be about?

‘Avocado & Syrup’. She pulls these two words on a round in her mind.

The streets are decorated and there’s a lot of light & shadow and color play in the foreground as the evening settles in. There’s a lot of hustle-bustle in the area, looks like everyone is busy in some kind of preparation.

She walks through the busy streets, in  front of those shops which are oozing out incense fragrances from across borders and over the seas. A pallet of colorful music is lost in the murmur of buyers and sellers. There’s so much drama and life in those streets.

She keeps walking as tiny droplets from the wet road below her feet, jump from her motion and land on her beautifully shaped calves. It tickles her a little. And her face is lit up by micro-expressions for a few fractions of seconds, like sparks from a cracker. Those subtle, little smiles, such unnoticed innocence.

‘Second turn to the left, end of the street’ she recalls in her mind. She walks down the narrow lane and reaches a stall. Takes out a bundle and draws out a few coins from it. Pays the shopkeeper, picks up the avocados and syrup and walks back home.

Now how do I know her? I only just met her, you see. I am the shopkeeper at the stall by the end of the street she bought those avocados and syrup from. But as she writes me down on a piece of paper with all so intricate details about me, she creates me out of nothing. 

She takes all her time to give me an existence and a capability to think on my own. And as I exist, I observe her walking down the street coming up to me.

She gives me another space where I can exist with her simultaneously. Where I feel so damn alive, I can see her clearly, even in this vivid shadow and color play. Even the lining of the vapour rising from her coffee looks like the lining of her calves as she picks up her stuff and turns back to go.

Maybe she likes coffee, but she has no idea I can see her from her own words.