by Hema Nataraju
Right now, in this Starbucks, are Joon and Henna–two strangers, two tall lattes, a glance, a nod. But this isn’t that kind of story. Joon and Henna will never meet after today, but in the years to come, they will be on each other’s minds a lot.
Joon is a Taurus. He loves growing succulents. It warms him, seeing them bloom and thrive with time and attention. But on the treadmill, he rushes straight to speed 10, no warm-ups. He takes great care in making his wife’s coffee every morning; one of the many nice things his father did for Joon’s stepmother, but never this, or anything nice for Joon’s mom.
Henna has moved a lot since childhood. An army brat who’s not really a brat. She doesn’t have any close friends or a green thumb. Every time her family moved to a new station, she found solace only in nature. She tries hard to grow her garden–to keep nature close, but plants die on her, and her friends always move away. Henna loves routine, a little too much.
Ten years from now, Joon and Henna will find out something devastating–something that’ll uproot their lives as they know it. Their spouses are having an affair with each other. Criss-cross, applesauce.
Joon’s wife and Henna’s husband will cry, grovel, beg for their forgiveness and Joon and Henna will consider forgiving–they both know what happens when a tree is uprooted.
Joon will want to know all the details. As if this information will dull the pain. His questions will fire off at Speed 10. Did you sleep with him (yes, but only once), was it good…better (no baby, not at all, there was no love), does he make you laugh (no), where did you meet him (at the office, when we worked on that project), why, why, why (I don’t know, I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry).
Joon will continue making his wife’s morning coffee. His hand will automatically pull two mugs out of the dishwasher every morning. But his wife will wish he wouldn’t. She’ll wish he’d make a decision–here or there. Forgive or leave. Let the ax fall, please. His kindness despite everything is killing her.
Henna will nurse her hurt quietly. She will withdraw into herself, so much that she will fear turning inside out and unleashing the tornado of questions inside her. She knows it’ll destroy everything that’s familiar. Her husband will wish she’d talk, or yell, curse, throw something at him. She’ll say, “I need time.”
Joon and Henna will never meet, but they will think of each other often. They will wonder how the other spouse is feeling, how they’re doing. They’re both new to this being-cheated-on state, so lonely on this moral high ground.
They’ll wish they had each other to navigate through this fog, to listen, to help each other heal. ‘Coz right now, there is nobody in the world who can understand what they’re going through, except each other.
But thoughts and wishes travel–on loose feathers, fallen eyelashes, on ribbons of breeze. And when they land, Joon will slow down on the treadmill, letting his thoughts breathe. He will look inwards and rummage through all the information to find what he really wants.
Henna will stop trying so hard to grow something meaningful. When a random someone cuts ahead of her in the grocery line on a random day, she will find her voice. She will abandon her cart, go home, and scream and scream into her pillow.
Joon is a Taurus. He loves growing succulents. It warms him, seeing them bloom and thrive with time and attention. But on the treadmill, he rushes straight to speed 10, no warm-ups. He takes great care in making his wife’s coffee every morning; one of the many nice things his father did for Joon’s stepmother, but never this, or anything nice for Joon’s mom.
Henna has moved a lot since childhood. An army brat who’s not really a brat. She doesn’t have any close friends or a green thumb. Every time her family moved to a new station, she found solace only in nature. She tries hard to grow her garden–to keep nature close, but plants die on her, and her friends always move away. Henna loves routine, a little too much.
Ten years from now, Joon and Henna will find out something devastating–something that’ll uproot their lives as they know it. Their spouses are having an affair with each other. Criss-cross, applesauce.
Joon’s wife and Henna’s husband will cry, grovel, beg for their forgiveness and Joon and Henna will consider forgiving–they both know what happens when a tree is uprooted.
Joon will want to know all the details. As if this information will dull the pain. His questions will fire off at Speed 10. Did you sleep with him (yes, but only once), was it good…better (no baby, not at all, there was no love), does he make you laugh (no), where did you meet him (at the office, when we worked on that project), why, why, why (I don’t know, I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry).
Joon will continue making his wife’s morning coffee. His hand will automatically pull two mugs out of the dishwasher every morning. But his wife will wish he wouldn’t. She’ll wish he’d make a decision–here or there. Forgive or leave. Let the ax fall, please. His kindness despite everything is killing her.
Henna will nurse her hurt quietly. She will withdraw into herself, so much that she will fear turning inside out and unleashing the tornado of questions inside her. She knows it’ll destroy everything that’s familiar. Her husband will wish she’d talk, or yell, curse, throw something at him. She’ll say, “I need time.”
Joon and Henna will never meet, but they will think of each other often. They will wonder how the other spouse is feeling, how they’re doing. They’re both new to this being-cheated-on state, so lonely on this moral high ground.
They’ll wish they had each other to navigate through this fog, to listen, to help each other heal. ‘Coz right now, there is nobody in the world who can understand what they’re going through, except each other.
But thoughts and wishes travel–on loose feathers, fallen eyelashes, on ribbons of breeze. And when they land, Joon will slow down on the treadmill, letting his thoughts breathe. He will look inwards and rummage through all the information to find what he really wants.
Henna will stop trying so hard to grow something meaningful. When a random someone cuts ahead of her in the grocery line on a random day, she will find her voice. She will abandon her cart, go home, and scream and scream into her pillow.
Hema Nataraju is an Indian-American writer, mom, and polyglot currently based in Singapore. Her work has most recently appeared in Barrelhouse, Bending Genres, Five South, Booth, Wigleaf, 100-word Story, and Ruby Literary, among others. She is a Submissions Editor at Smokelong Quarterly and she tweets as m_ixedbag.
Emerge Literary Journal 