Sunday was like that.
I woke up and realized that I had enough of it all - quasi-flirting, quasi-relationships, emotional insanity, betrayal, and 3 am phone calls. I was tired of being the person I had become, I looked into the mirror and didn't know the person I was staring at. Over the week, I'd had the worst spats and cut ties with a few of my closest friends. I didn't know what the heck I was doing to myself and the people around me.
But then Sunday happened.
It was the hottest afternoon in Chennai, and the temperature was soaring. People stood under any shade they could get. And I walked out completely dissed, hair uncombed, smudgy kajal, a ridiculous top and flip flops. Then I met him. And we spoke about nothing exceptional - the weather, the traffic and our so-called-lives. We sipped on lemonade in a room of apple flavoured smoke. And we did nothing all evening but walk around the block before it was time to leave. We did nothing but talk. We did nothing at all.
It was a just another Sunday.
But when we went back home, my head was singing. For the first time in long, I laughed at something funny on television. I picked up a book I'd saved for reading. I could think of nothing but chocolate cake. I reread NK's message and deleted it. I called my best friend and we spoke about random stuff. I felt weird. I felt uncluttered and free. My head felt woozy and my heart felt light.
The truth was that it was the hottest Sunday in April, and I was wearing this ridiculous top, flip flops and was perspiring. It was easily the worst day in the lives of many.
But who cared?
It was Sunday and I felt like Dita Von Teese.