It was two days after their fourth and final breakup — with each other — when they decided to meet again. They had parted ways cordially, over text, citing their incompatibility as the reason. The real reason, however, was she found him elitist and he thought of her as intellectually unstimulating. The quintessential intellectual class divide. They both decided to date newer people. Why they decided to meet again, neither of them knew. He'd texted her that he didn't want to end things on text, even if it was cordial, and wanted to end it face to face. She liked the idea, more so when he promised that they both would go for a bike ride. Long distance bike ride. It was long due. He picked her from her house at 10 and they both went far out of the city, facing Corona lockdown, with more dogs on the road than cars. On the way to the airport, they hoped to stopover at a McDonald's but it was shut and the two thought of celebrating their breakup at a deserted Punjabi restaurant nearby. There were hardly any other customer. Over yum mushroom fry and a smelly paneer tikka shashalik, after a thorough lifebuoy hand-wash, they discussed the fate of country under Modi, the plight of Dalit sewer cleaners, the economy that is in tatters and what great excuse Modi has got in the name of Corona. It was their so-called first dinner date. She's a fabulous cook, so mostly they both cooked together at her home before, but the breakup erected an unsaid wall between them to consider the luxury of sharing an intimate space such as one's kitchen. The formality post a textual breakup hung over their dinner conversation like the aftertaste of a burp. The conversation was interesting. Both of them lacked the aggression that would appear earlier everytime they conversed. The aggression that burns like magma within, the fire of wanting to end things with someone. The fire of escape. The end was a thing of past. There was no burden to go back to. They both felt freer. When they washed their hands in the lukewarm lemon water of the finger bowl, he took a careful look at her and said, "You have lost weight! Your face seems chiseled." She mentioned how, of late, she's been doing 30 burpees everyday and when he asked her what are burpees, she snappily remarked, "Do your favourite thing. Google!" He still wanted her to enact which she decided against. Since they were the only guests, the manager was extra attentive and it seemed he'd join her along with the two bored waiters, if she were to do burpees then and there. On the way out, she verbally explained how it's done. Plank, plank on elbows, jump, jumping jacks, back to plank. He was sleepy by the time they came out of the restaurant and he sped his bike in the nineties, making it difficult to talk on way back. Unlike earlier, she barely held his waist or put her chin on his right shoulder. Even her helmet didn't collide with his as it usually did, not even over speedbreakers. Social distancing in real. When they reached her place, he asked, "Would it be okay if I invite myself over? We barely spoke about us." She replied, "Sure, I can make chai." There was no chai that was made. First fifteen minutes were awkward. There was hitch lurking in the air. Touching was out of question. Breakup, duh. There were fairy lights in her room, a welcome addition. She played a Coke Studio Pakistan song which he didn't understand or care for but watched her enunciate the lyrics and the meaning of each line. It was nice but he didn't want to know. After 15 minutes of lying side by side, he slyly touched her earlobe, tapping it as if a doorbell. It swung like a pendulum. She turned to his side. Her burpees chiseled face an inch away from his. They kissed. Thirty minutes later, they both lay next to each other, naked, sweaty and spent, heart throbbing as if back from a midnight run, eyes resting on the black faraway ceiling dimly lit by the fairy lights. Her voice echoed in the room, "What are we doing? We were supposed to be dating newer people."
