On our sixth meeting, you relate how it takes just 21 times to get habituated to anything. You don't want me to turn into a habit. You don't have the mindspace. I joke that like high-rise apartments jump from the 12th to 14th floor, we will skip the 21st meet for the 22nd. No 21 meets, no habits. You ignore my lameness, thankfully. Your restraint lingers in the air between us. Even after two days since our last meeting, your aversion to new habits itches me every time I face the mirror. Like a wiry eyelash that enters one's eyes and pokes it throughout the day without being discovered, the hitch chokes me every time I think of texting you. Would I seem chep? Would you cut off whatever little there is? Its uncertainty makes me cautious. On the one hand, I want to become a habit, on the other hand I don't wish to lose the fond friendship that I have found in you & come to cherish. Cluelessness, my word of the month. What if habits are formed much before the 21st? What if it has merely been six meetings & I cannot stop writing you a letter every night while you're asleep. I'm relishing this new habit. The habit of beginning your day with a well-meant letter cannot be too bad. Is it? Balcony Letter #33 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.
