we look at each other and we smile that smile like a secret we share we both know we've found what the whole world is searching for.
"THE FIRST TIME I SAW YOU, MY HEART WHISPERED: "THAT'S THE ONE"
...................................
AGASTYA MUKHERJE...
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What do you reckon he's doing here?" siddhant whispers as his eyes stay glued to the fine specimen.
"His job," I reply flatly. "He does work here, you know."
The more I think about it, the more I know I've romanticized this whole agastya Mukherjee thing. He doesn't like me-he's just horny, and there's a big difference. He's probably had sex with five women since Friday night when I spoke to him. I haven't heard from him since, and I don't want to either.
I didn't leave prakrit because Agastya told me to; I left prakrit because he'd stopped putting in any effort. If agastya knows we broke up, he's going to assume it's because I want to sleep with him . . . and I don't.
I really don't. Stupid men.
I'm not telling my coworkers that we broke up. I don't want to make a fanfare of it. I want to take my time to get my head around it.
Avinash singh says something, and riya laughs. Then he disappears into the elevator, and we all get back to work.
I struggle with my umbrella as I trudge down the pavement in the rain. Mumbai isn't as dreamy in the wet. I grab the Gazette while I'm waiting for the lights to change and stuff it in my bag. I'll read this while I wait for my coffee. My phone rings.
"Hello, saanvi dutta speaking," I answer as I power walk among the crowd.
"Hello, sanvi," a familiar voice says.
I frown, unable to place who it is. "Who's speaking, please?"
"This is Mamta. We spoke yesterday."
Oh shit-the graffiti lady. "Oh yes, hello, Mamta. It's a bad line, and I couldn't hear you properly," I lie.
"It's Abhishek raina," she replies.
"I'm sorry?" I frown.
"My neighbor's name is Abhishek raina. I couldn't remember it yesterday."
I screw up my face and cringe. Oh God. I hope it hasn't gone to print. I completely forgot to go back to it. Panic begins to swirl in my stomach.
Shit.
"I think the story has already gone to print, Mamta. I'm so sorry I didn't recheck it with you."
"Oh, that's okay, dear. It doesn't matter-no harm done. I felt foolish being unable to remember, and I wanted to call you."
My stomach rolls. It does matter-you don't get names wrong in a story. Reporting 101.
Fuck.
I puff air into my cheeks as disappointment in myself runs through me. Damn it. This is not a little mistake; it's a major fuckup. "Thanks for the call, Mamta. I'll call you when I get into the office and let you know when it's running." With any luck it won't be until tomorrow, and I will have time to change it.
