12 views
The Ace Of Hearts
From middle-aged men striking business deals over a cup of coffee and a plate of sandwiches to men and women, young and in love, giggling as they shared a cup of the finest coffee, caramel and ice cream shake, customers had come and gone. But Rayan just sat there, in a black and white plaid shirt, powder blue jeans and a pair of black and blue running shoes, a black haired tall fellow with his wheatish and chiseled frame in a pair of black rimmed rectangular glasses, brooding at the corner table of his favourite coffee shop, invisible to everyone, perhaps even ignorant of them.
He had been there for hours, staring blankly at blinking cursor on the white screen of his MacBook, while the rest of his espresso had turned stone cold.
Rayan's previous book didn't do so well with either the audience or the critics. Even then his trusted literary agent, Feroz, at his rooftop party on the eve of 2019, had promised him to get a good deal with a leading publishing house of Kolkata, on the condition that he was finished with his upcoming manuscript by the end of September of 2020. The year of 2019 had gone by within the blink of an eye while January of 2020 was slowly walking by, but Rayan was at a loss for ideas.
The previous year had rendered him impatient.
He had managed to get perpetually stuck at his high-paying boring desk job at a reputed company but he was afraid to quit. Who'd pay his rent and his bills?
His love life had gone down the trash chute because he knew that if he had to wake up to Daliah's routined and smothering love another day, he'd put a pillow over her face while she slept. He had overcome the urge and one fine morning asked her to pack her things and leave, saying he didn't love her anymore. She'd cried her eyes out. "I'll be gone by the time you're home," she'd said, and Rayan had come back to an empty apartment that night. Daliah had left with her things and her dignity.
He planned failed trips, successfully fought with his parents that one time he visited, and even fell out of touch with his tight knit group of friends.
But no matter what he did or tried, there was no escaping the writer's block that enveloped him a little more with every passing second.
"Sir, it's almost ten, we're about to close."
Rayan pulled himself back to reality and looked up at the waitress standing by his table, smiling awkwardly, the bill in her hand.
He nodded and quickly gulped down the remaining coffee, took the bill from her and reached for his purse. "Here. Uh, keep the change," he...
He had been there for hours, staring blankly at blinking cursor on the white screen of his MacBook, while the rest of his espresso had turned stone cold.
Rayan's previous book didn't do so well with either the audience or the critics. Even then his trusted literary agent, Feroz, at his rooftop party on the eve of 2019, had promised him to get a good deal with a leading publishing house of Kolkata, on the condition that he was finished with his upcoming manuscript by the end of September of 2020. The year of 2019 had gone by within the blink of an eye while January of 2020 was slowly walking by, but Rayan was at a loss for ideas.
The previous year had rendered him impatient.
He had managed to get perpetually stuck at his high-paying boring desk job at a reputed company but he was afraid to quit. Who'd pay his rent and his bills?
His love life had gone down the trash chute because he knew that if he had to wake up to Daliah's routined and smothering love another day, he'd put a pillow over her face while she slept. He had overcome the urge and one fine morning asked her to pack her things and leave, saying he didn't love her anymore. She'd cried her eyes out. "I'll be gone by the time you're home," she'd said, and Rayan had come back to an empty apartment that night. Daliah had left with her things and her dignity.
He planned failed trips, successfully fought with his parents that one time he visited, and even fell out of touch with his tight knit group of friends.
But no matter what he did or tried, there was no escaping the writer's block that enveloped him a little more with every passing second.
"Sir, it's almost ten, we're about to close."
Rayan pulled himself back to reality and looked up at the waitress standing by his table, smiling awkwardly, the bill in her hand.
He nodded and quickly gulped down the remaining coffee, took the bill from her and reached for his purse. "Here. Uh, keep the change," he...
