He's 44. She's 25.
They say age is just a number.
Is it really?
•••••
Vijay Khanna doesn't believe in love.
A harsh truth taught by life.
For him, love is a myth, an illusion, a fairytale.
Too perfect to be real. Too phantasmic to get possessio...
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• H E E R •
There's a change of plan.
Or you could there's an addition to it.
I don't want to leave this job, but this planet too as long as my boss desires to be a part of it—alive and breathing.
And downright conceited.
Not to forget judgmental too, like right now.
He's looking down his nose at the letter of resignation in his hands or more exactly in the pinch of his index finger and thumb, with coffee dripping from its corners. Barely hanging for its life, and burning under his scrutinizing gaze. I'm surprised that it hasn't turned into ashes yet and fallen onto the ground so that he could walk upon my appeal as he does to the enthusiasm I carry along before coming to work here every morning.
But it barely does the job of maintaining my temperamental makeup since the man in front of me successfully, and so very shamelessly obliterates it to the point of no return.
He's talented like that.
I shifted on my feet, gulping for my own life when his eyes, which were spitting lasers in the direction of my letter, snapped to me briefly—did call me a fool in all the indescribable languages, wordlessly—before fixing them back to my doom. Which was supposed to be freedom, mind you.
This wasn't the circumstance I'd been prepared for since last night. It was more peaceful and professional. More cordiality and readiness. More fluency and confidence.
And less disapproval and awkward silence.
But if I'd had a tiny inkling of how today would turn out, I'd have never anticipated the collected rhythm of my action, or his, for that matter. Never from him, that's given, if anything. When it comes to me, it's always wishful thinking, I know and I should've entrenched it in my head sooner than later. But, it's also not my fault that there's still that bright hope when it comes to him and me and the troubled work relationship we share.
Or there's no relationship as such, just tolerance. Tolerance, where we both haven't developed any immunity against each other and that's what makes it even worse because you have no idea when we might act like an agitated hound and run to throttle each other's neck. We're just running on the edge and it's becoming an uncomfortable journey.
Or at the moment the uncomfortable one is only me because he won't stop looking down at the ruined piece of paper.
This is not how I imagined him to receive the letter, not at all. Runny. Half brown, half white. From the floor. And barely readable, or maybe decipherable enough to have him concentrating on the words with such seriousness as if he's carrying his medical reports that declare his barely there living span.
I regarded my pitiable condition, involving a huge brown stain on the center of my off-white shirt and a look of chagrin clouding over my face. Well, this is not how I imagined myself too.
