In Passing.

by Somethinger

The day starts with running.

Running away from home, running to make it in time before the sun gets too high. Running to music in my mind and running away from looming illness. So when I step off the ground, not looking quite as impressive as slender girls do, because I’m not slender, it’s usually around 8.30 AM. Which means, that the shops have opened and the ICICI branch between the ground and home will be waking up as well.

Which means that tall, round-faced, curly haired exec will be waiting outside, leaning on the metal barrier between the footpath and the road.

I know that because he’s the one who sits right opposite the door, and when the OBC ATM doesn’t function, which is often, I have to walk into the ICICI one. I suppose he looks up every time the door swings open. But he certainly does when I do. That’s alright. I make a dramatic entry anyway.

So if I spot him after work, which is, later in the evening, when I’m on my way back, or if he’s hanging around office for a sandwich from the stall outside the branch, I don’t know how to react. He’s familiar, but he’s no acquaintance that I can smile at.

So when I waved at my friend walking towards me the other day, he thought it was him I waved at. That awkward moment? Yes, I know. I didn’t know what to do either.

So when I was hopping about, telling Shriya exactly what a brilliant day I had today, he turned from his friends. And kept looking. I don’t know whether or not he was searching for a response of familiarity. So I didn’t know what to do. I’m awkward that way.

The point being, this writing for one of those people who I want to remember as existent during a certain time, but who I have no tangible memory of. I don’t know if I’ll ever talk to him. But I want someone to know that he’s there, and I know he’s there.

Like a person in the background of a photo you clicked. You’ll know the face. But that’s all. That’s about the extent of that story you’ve heard.

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