Of These Moments

The music is floating in the background. He makes himself comfortable in the rosewood rocking chair, in the centre of the room, with the weekend crossword in hand. She is seated on the diwan at the other end, skimming through some patterns in the embroidery book.

Some Sundays are like this -- a heavy duty spring cleaning session, a hearty late afternoon lunch, and the unexpected downpour playing a dampener on plans for a nice long evening drive. The weekend newspaper is some solace. He picks up his pencil and turns around the cryptic clues and the letters, unmindful of the weather which has turned little muggy now. His fingers play with the pencil, while trying to hit on the right word.

She is lost in the thread work. She clucks her tongue. A stitch gone wrong. He looks up, half thinking of the clue and half gazing at her “Wonder how many of them take interest in embroidery these days?” She catches him with an amused smile. She smiles back.

He has cleared almost all the tough ones. Momentarily placing the pencil behind his ears , he thinks, “Should they go for the drive, after all ?” Should he ask her? Would she answer?

Just four more words left... Dismissing the uncertain trail his mind is following, he gets up and heads for the kitchen. Sundays, she takes care to refill the coffee pot after lunch. A pair of robins taking shelter at the window sill nestles close to each other, looking happy and contended. “Spending a quiet Sunday like us, eh?”

He carefully adds the milk and sugar to the coffee. Now this was getting a little confusing. Couldn’t decide which was better – the smell of wet grass in the apartment lawns or the nice hot cappuccino that he was pouring into the cups! The coffee mugs tinkled as he arranged them on the tray.

She emerges from the balcony, after drying a few odd clothes stuff that they managed to wash today. He bends down to place the coffee tray at the side table. She settles back on the diwan.
“Still thinking of the drive?” she asks. With a mischievous wink, he shakes his head. She chuckles, a soft chuckle, while casually gathering her hair and drawing it into a soft pile at the nape.

The coffee’s on the table, the steam from the mugs concocting a wafty pattern in air. She picks her mug, and wraps her palms around it. He changes the music and settles down besides her, stretches his legs and lets out a comforting sigh.

The weather couldn't have turned better. The breeze through the window is cool, pleasant and inviting. Inside, the melodious notes continue to fill the room, the mood blending effortlessly with the magical warmth of companionable silence.