* Fifty vs. Seven *
I have been sitting on my bed, sulking since hours. My hair is a mess and my stomach rumbles; both a grim reminder of my anger directed at him.
The person I am angry at is my boyfriend. Ours is a long-distance relationship and he has come to my city after a good four months. He has come for just three days, though.
Sixty hours, to be precise. Yes, I’d counted.
We have met a couple of times after he has come here and the meetings have been brief. He had promised that we would spend a good fifty-something hours together. I had a well prepared to-do list for that.
But then, he had to meet others too. That had taken up most of his time.
“I won’t even talk to him,” I mutter to myself.
“Let him call. I won’t even answer,” I say again.
“Even if he texts, I won’t reply,” I add.
My phone beeps and hour later. It’s a text from him.
“Sorry,” it reads.
I bite my lip to supress my anger.
“No problem. Just tell me if I should wait up for you or if I should have my dinner and go to bed,” I reply.
“We’ll eat together. I will be there soon. Wait up for me, please?” he texts me back.
“Fine,” I reply.
I can never not yield to a ‘Sorry’ or a ‘Please’ from him. Nevertheless, I remind myself that I am angry.
An hour later, he shows up to meet me.
“When is your flight tomorrow?” I ask.
“At eight in the morning,” he says.
“You’ll have to leave for the airport at six, then,” I say.
I do a mental math and realise that we only have seven more hours together. I almost tear up.
In those three and half years of our relationship, I have never been able to not cry while seeing him off. My anger dies somewhere inside me.
I reach out and take his hand in mine.
“I am sorry. I lost my temper,” I said.
“I am sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you,” he said as I hugged him.
And in the comparison between fifty-something-hours and seven hours, it was the lesser number of hours that turned out to be more precious.