She was late, as to be expected. I scowled at the waiter, for the fifth time, as he asked whether I really needed a table for two. "If it's just you, wouldn't a stool by the bar do?" He asked.

"I'm waiting for somebody," I growled at him, "as I've told you, at least four times already." He grimaced, and looked helplessly at the woman near the door, waiting for a table. She was the one who had egged him on, I guessed.

"Looks like she isn't coming," the woman sneered at me. She laughed, a witch's cackle, her fat cheeks jiggling. "You might as well free it up. She won't come." I frowned at her and unfolded the newspaper lying in front of me, bringing it close to my face, shielding my self from further such intrusions. KAREENA SPOTTED WITH NEW BOYFRIEND, the headlines on the society page screamed at me, clamoring for attention beside an article titled ARE YOUR CO-WORKERS LYING TO YOU. I tried to engross myself in the messy affairs of Kareena's love life, ignoring the reproachful looks the restaurant manager threw my way.

She finally sauntered in, hair tousled and eyes half-closed. "I'm sorry I'm late," she smiled sleepily at me.

I tried to smile back, but failed, the corners of my mouth twitching into a sulk instead. She smiled again, charming and sheepish, "I woke up when you called, and as you can see, jumped out of bed, and ran here," she gestured to the loose men's shirt she wore over her jeans, "in my nightclothes."

"Come on, you aren't angry, are you?" She asked in a teasing, playful tone, pulling the newspaper away, leaning over to peck me on my cheek.

I smelt the aroma of sleep and sex steaming from her body, as she bent down. She didn't see me grimace. She was lying...well not exactly, but she was having me. I could see it in her eyes, and smell it on her body. She had woken up in strong, muscular arms when her phone had rung, and had reached over to pick it up from the other side of the bed. "Hello?" She murmured drowsily into the speaker. He must have gotten up as well, nibbled on her shoulder as she spoke to me. Then his tongue must have travelled up, along the curves of her neck, his fingers racing down her spine. "Ohh...yes, yes! I'm already on my way..yes, I'll be there soon," she had said, her voice rising in excitement, which I had mistaken for wakefulness. She had ended the call, and slumped back into bed, as his powerful arms (so different from mine) pulling her back in, and spent a few more minutes dallying....

While I had been here, waiting since noon, as the minutes ticked by, guarding the table for two like a mother-bear protecting its cubs.

But she fixed me with her lovely brown eyes and my sulk melted under her sunshine. Even then, though, a stubborn particle of resentment remained. I couldn't forget that she knew her power over me, and used it, returning my love with thoughtless half-truths. She needn't lie, there was nothing between us and therefore nothing to hide, but she liked the power my admiration gave her. It was the thoughtlessness that stung me the most, the fact that although I couldn't claim the truth, I didn't even warrant a good lie or a half-decent excuse.

But I grinned back, charmed by her smiles and kisses. She sat down and, beckoning the waiter, ordered for the both of us.

"I'm leaving the office," she confided over a post-lunch coffee, "I'm going to set up my own studio."

"Really, Anjali?" I exclaimed, frantic and scared at the thought of losing her. "Have you told the boss as yet?"

She nodded her head, and whispered "It's a secret though so far, don't tell anyone else at the office, he doesn't want me to go, really, but I will!" She had leaned back, beautiful eyes flashing with excitement. "I wanted you to know first, you have been such a good friend."

I smiled, a valiant effort. "Oh, that's great," I mumbled, drowning in a sea of mixed feelings. My cappuccino grew cold as I wondered - what would it be like not to see her everyday? Not to share lunch with her in the canteen, not to feel the warmth of her smile or the brush of her hands against as mine as she handed her work in? And even then, there was the familiar surge of jealousy - she was better than me, more creative and talented - and she was leaving...while I was stuck in my narrow cubicle at the office, with my uninspired, lackluster efforts for company - as she climbed from strength to strength, and scaled heights I could never reach. She would create something brilliant and beautiful, something that would last forever - the opus, the masterpiece that eluded me.

I felt like the figure in Edward Munch's famous painting, hands stopping his ears, mouth opened in a scream no one can hear. I felt like that, like I was screaming and no one could hear me.

And she chattered on, uncaring and thoughtless, about her plans for her studio and the dream she had that I could not share. She didn't notice my smile droop, my forehead crease into a frown, my eyes gleam with unshed tears. After I settled the cheque, she kissed me again, chastely, and twittered. "You're too good, Vicky, such a good guy!"

I hated her for that.