Sirop de Vanille

She caught a pair of gorgeous dark eyes staring at her, and she felt the familiar, yet unexpected, shiver. She realised she was smiling at his smile. Indulgently. She traced the lattice work on cold refreshing sandstone. He looked on, while she walked unhurriedly through the corridors towards the courtyard. He took another route towards the courtyard, which had been converted into an open-air bar. He lit a cigarette once he was seated comfortably. The candlelight flickered on his face, and lit the deep hues of brown in his eyes. She had changed, he mused. She had replaced the innocent, unabashed smile for a calculated, cosmetic flash of the pearly whites. The eyes were still the same, lined with kohl. But he couldn’t spot the mischievous glint in them. The hair was longer, straighter, and silkier. Glossy. Probably coloured one of those hazelnut or chestnut brown. It used to be ‘Blue-Black’. He took a sip of his drink, and looked away.

She was sleeping peacefully… curled up on her side, with her hands tucked under the pillow. Her hair, a crazy mass of gorgeous waves. The collar of her over-sized sleeping shirt hid the mole on her chin. He smiled as he thought of her, putting on his shirt and parading it in front of the mirror. ‘I look way better than you do in this shirt’, she had announced. She had then perched herself on the arm of the over-sized couch, and showed off her silver toenails. ‘See! They sparkle!’ He had then played the part of the keen observer of the sparkle and silver. She stretched lazily, and smiled at him. He leaned forward for a good-morning-kiss, and she pushed him away. Morning Breath! He nodded solemnly and she ran to the bathroom.

His laughter was interrupted by the waiter refreshing the ashtray on his table. He thanked him, out of habit and returned to his thoughts.

‘Short. And easy to manage. I want it to frame my face, but I… Yes, do whatever, just make me look nice!’ They had walked in without an appointment and she had demanded the ‘Senior Hairstylist’, right after she had demanded ‘lots and lots of alcohol’. At the ‘Beauty Shop’, he had rolled his eyes, picked up the newspaper lying in the waiting area and taken a seat – a bright pink seat meant for two tiny women. He had grimaced and painted his face with exceptional grief. She had fought. Fought for a haircut she had decided she wanted 5 minutes before entering the Mall. She couldn’t wait for the wash, or the booklet with photographs of models with “short” haircuts. She had looked excited and happy and all set. Her gorgeous hair had soon started descending in huge chunks on the white marble floor. It wouldn’t stop… it fell, it floated, it danced with the legs of the chair, and bowed graciously to its audience… and then it had slowly stopped raining a crazy torrential dark brown. She had heaved a sigh of relief. She had stared at herself in the mirror, perplexed. And then ran a hand through her hair… she had looked at the assistant to the hairdresser, who was busy sweeping her hair away… and then she had started crying…

‘Still haven’t managed to find her..? I’m surprised you still come here every year’, a beautiful voice said softly. He smiled as he saw her tiny hands resting ever so lightly on his hand. He looked up and saw the most honest smile ever…

‘A promise is a promise,’ he replied.

‘Hmmm… what about the promise you made to me!’ she said, ever so softly.

‘Promise?’, he asked, his brow creasing with worry.

‘Yes, you told me, you’ll make me have the best Appletini in the world…’

He laughed and ordered her a Green Appletini (45 ml Vodka, 15 ml Green Apple Liqueur, shaken on lots & lots of ice!) ‘Anything for you madame…’

She smiled and then followed his gaze, the chestnut brown shone brilliantly, glossily, the hair swayed to the pianist’s every note. The little white dress showed off a beautiful tan.

A look of recognition crossed over her features, and she smiled and said to him, very casually, ‘Is she with someone new now? Her hair is different…’