“Relationships are like teeth.” he said softly, leaning towards her from across the table, as if letting her into a big secret. She laughed. An engaging, interested laugh. Her eyes laughed too.

“Tell me more, Herr Freud!” she exclaimed.

“Well, they need serious brushing at least twice a day to avoid harmful buildup. They need to be flossed to get rid of debris, remains, leftovers – baggage, you might call it. And if you don’t take good care, you get cavities. And you know how cavities work?” She shook her head. “Well, this bacteria sits on or in your teeth, and waits for you to have something sweet. You see, it thrives on sugar. The more sugar it gets the more it multiplies its damage and the bigger the hole gets. You can liken the sugar to negative feelings. Now you see the similarities?” he said with a smile.

“So, are you a dentist or a psychotherapist?”

“Neither. Just someone with enough time to think!”

The two of them were transient soul mates, the kind that meet at airports, bars – even dentists waiting rooms – and find camaraderie in a shared common plight – in this case a delayed airline connection. Yet there is something that puts such people together. It is not every time that two people connect. The conditions have to be right. The bacteria of social contact thrives on its own brand of organic sugar. One could go through months of travelling with only the comfort of a book or a music player. But once in a while, one look, one glance at a travelling companion, the way they’re dressed, their mannerisms, a smile, or just the way they converse with staff, draws favourable attention, and fate naturally gravitates one towards the other. It is not sexual, it is not love, it is just a few hours spent in conversation, and sometimes these temporary friends part after a fulfilling time without even knowing each others names.

They were both travelling on the same airline – he back home to Karachi and she to Cape Town. Both their connections were delayed by hours. It was her first time to this part of the world, and she was nervous. In the business class lounge she needed a vital piece of information and had to find someone reliable to deliver it. She chose him, with his mild, good natured face and kind eyes – and obviously sub-continental, if not Pakistani looks. He was helping himself to a salad from the ample bar, when she sidled up to him.

“Hi, do you travel here often?” she asked.

“Not too much, a few times a year,” he replied. He could tell that she was not trying to strike up a conversation. There was something deeper. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you know I have heard that in India and Pakistan it is not safe to eat a salad. I was wondering if the same applies here, in Abu Dhabi.”

He laughed.

“Not at all, treat it like your own country. It’s no problem at all. Where are you from, by the way?” She was South African.

And as they sat down to a meal together the conversation gravitated from life in Karachi to life in Cape Town and life in general. A few drinks later it had graduated to life in the particular, of the age old quest for happiness and contentment, and then on to relationships, at which point he made his contemplative, metaphorical statement about teeth.

“So tell me. Why should only one part of the relationship be doing all the work on teeth? Why should I be the one to arrange for disposal of the baggage? Why should I brush them twice a day? What about the other party?”

“Simple. Don’t do it if you don’t want to. Ok, look, we can’t take this teeth business too far. Next you’re going to ask me how you can make love to your teeth! So, say you’re in a relationship and are feeling cheated. Not cheated in the ‘having sex with someone else way’ but cheated in the ‘having to give more than getting way’. The point here is, why are you in the relationship then?”

“Because I love him.”

“Hold on, let’s back up. Are we now in the realm of psychoanalysis? Are we talking philosophy or real people here, because if it is the latter I need to turn on my stopwatch. Charge by the hour and all that you know.” She smiled, but this time her eyes did not. And when he looked into them he found a void, a void created by years of sadness, perhaps pain. The crows feet around her eyes revealed her advancing years, though she was still very attractive. Her smooth skin was bronzed by the African sun, her features determined yet soft, capped by sapphire blue eyes.

She sighed. That was answer enough for him.

“Do you want to talk about it? Gratis advice is also available. You know in the computer world there is a free and open source software movement, where applications are free to download and use. You pay either for premium services or support, but the basic application is free. So, here I can offer you my basic advice free of charge, but you might have to pay for the premium one!” His own wife would probably have got up and left at this point. He had this irritating habit of trying to inject humour into even the most serious of occasions. But she didn’t leave. In fact, she was staring into distant space, as if she hadn’t heard him at all.

He recognized her need for introspection and solitude and indulged his salad like a long lost friend he had met. It felt like five minutes before she spoke. “I am forty you know,” she said, transfixing him with glazed eyes. Another pause, while he was caught with his fork in midair, skewered with lettuce and chicken bits, wondering. A drop of vinaigrette splashed onto his plate in slow motion. His mouth was still open, partly in anticipation of the salad, and partly in contemplation of where the conversation was headed. He fancied himself as the last person to inspire someone to open their hearts to. He slowly lowered the fork onto the plate and let go. The motion acted as a lever, shutting his mouth in the process.

She lifted her glass to her lips and took a gulp of her vodka tonic. Her eyes remained on him. Yet they were not looking at him. “And for twenty two of those forty years, I have loved him – totally loved him. I have been there for him, forgiven his foibles, forgiven his infidelity, changed myself, given up my friends, devoted my time to his career, for what?

“For a roller coaster ride of ups and downs, intense highs and deep lows? He loves me, he loves me not? I love him, I love him not? We love the kids, we love them not? And just like a roller coaster when the low comes, it comes gut wrenchingly fast, Sometimes it seems someone has cast a brooding spell over him.”

“Like a sudden loss in cabin pressure? Time to bring out the oxygen masks, I suppose.” he said, regretting it as soon as he spoke. His wife would probably have exploded in fury and stopped talking to him for days. But she was still there.

“Actually you’re right. At those times it does feel like a severe lack of oxygen. Sometimes I need an infusion of a full tank just to keep me going. I find solace in my work, spend more time with the kids, watch trashy movies. Anything to keep the blood flowing and my mind off the problem, when what I would really like to do is grab a club and bash some sense into him. I find that slowly I am becoming an expert at avoiding the issue.”

“How old are your kids?” He asked this more to keep the conversation going than out of any desire for background information.

“One boy, one girl. Sixteen and fourteen. But then there are times when things are amazing. Almost dreamlike. He’s so gentle, pays attention to me and what I’m doing, romances me with flowers and massages, the love making becomes slow and passionate, but a few weeks later it’s gone again. And then I am left with a void, wondering whether I am happy or unhappy.”

“Have you two talked about it. I mean you and your husband – about your relationship.”

“Where is the time?”

He felt a sudden impulse to let go and talk about himself. Contrary to belief, life in Karachi seemed a lot faster than even the most cosmopolitan of western cities. There was the usual rush of work, but what took a whole chunk of life out for both him and his wife, were the constant trips to ferry kids to and from school, to and from tuitions, to and from extra curricular activities, and social obligations that included attending weddings and funerals not only of their own near and distant relatives, but near relatives of friends, friends of friends, office colleagues, neighbours and the random person on the street! Coupled with a cultural reluctance to say no to anything, their days and evenings were a frenzy of planning and implementation of the next social or family obligation.

The remainder of the time was spent by his wife on her individual society rounds. Aerobics at nine, coffees at eleven, afternoon tea – the bored housewives club he used to call it. Fertile hunting grounds for a playboy.

He would liked to have led a much slower relaxed life. One where work served a very specific purpose – to put adequate food on the table, provide a decent education for their two kids and perhaps one vacation a year. He was just not into the culture of more, more and more. While his friends were drooling over the next big four wheel drive, he was happy driving his little Toyota. While they were talking about vacationing in St. Tropez, he was perfectly content with Nathiagali in the summer. It was not that he was poor. He had a decent house in Defence, a good business that kept the family firmly in the upper middle or lower upper class, two cars albeit smaller ones, and some money in the bank saved up for a rainy day.

So he told her all that.

“But what I too lack is time. You know time to relax. My ideal day would be to work from nine to six. Come home. Sit with my wife, have a nice whiskey and chat about the day. Spend time with the kids. And then take it from there, after they’ve gone to bed, which is early.

“That doesn’t happen though. I come home to the jarring sound of ringing mobile phones, the wife on verbal or SMS banter with friends and relatives, the children fighting, their mother screaming at them through one corner of her mouth, and through the other informing me of our next engagement, if she hasn’t already told me ten times during the day already. The total of opposite of my Utopian dream. It makes me want to just turn around and walk back out. Ironically, I find more peace and quiet at work than at home! Sometimes ….” his voice trailed off and he went silent.

She continued to look at him, noticing his soft features, starting from his full head of salt and pepper hair which could only be described as a mop. Rounded edges that hung down almost to his eyebrows like a weeping willow. He reminded her of a sub-continental version of Jim on the US variant of The Office. Occasionally he ran his fingers through his hair, lifting it up and letting go. The soft, pliant mop just fell back into place. His eyebrows were dark and she noticed that they had been groomed, framing a set of deep brown eyes, that drew her into them. She saw a passion there. A passion for old fashioned love – love in a time when it was expressed in a private, personal way. Love in a time when lovers held hands and sneaked away to a movie theater. Love in a time when a quiet walk on the beach or in the park said it all. When sitting together, shoulders barely touching, lovers would contemplate a golden sunset. A love that she could relate to.

Like hers, the corners of his eyes too betrayed the passing years. She was never good at judging a persons age, but if coerced, she would have put him somewhere between forty five and fifty. He was not an alpha male. Not the bad boy that women of today seem to be attracted to. In fact he was diametrically opposed to the stereotype. An extra bit of fat decorated most of his body that she could see, but he exuded strength – both physical and mental. The physical being a shell to house a strong mind and keep it going under stress, not really meant for a fight.

And she liked his sense of humour. She felt it to be more a sense of perspective, of keeping things serious but light. Not letting the situation get the better of one. His tangential thinking, about software, cabin pressure and teeth added a level of challenge and banter to the conversation that she was not used to experiencing.

As if on cue, he came online exactly where he’d left off. “… sometimes … it’s like they say on the safety demonstration on aircraft. You must put the oxygen mask on yourself first before helping others. Of course that is a very practical consideration, but I feel that it applies to relationships as well. These days I just feel like putting everything aside and concentrating on ‘numero uno’ – that would be me. Am I rambling?”

“No, no not at all. I love the analogies!”

“Heres another one then. It’s like the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign is permanently on in the house. But unlike an aircraft where they say turbulence is unexpected, at home I am sure that there will always be tumult and turbulence,” he added.

“So from teeth we move on to aircraft,” she said jocularly. And they both laughed.

Still laughing, he said “And if I take a mistress on, we could call her ‘dentures’!” and slapped the table thrice with his fist. She rocked back on her chair and let out a yelp of delight.

“And being unfaithful would mean brushing your real teeth and dentures with the same toothbrush!”

“Stop it, you’re killing me!” she pushed her chair back and doubled up. They both realized simultaneously that about sixty pairs of tired eyes were looking their way. An airline lounge is a very sombre place, a necessary pilgrimage during ones journey, but not one that a traveller would relish. To find two people who were obviously strangers a short while back enjoying themselves with great abandon, was always an odd sight and subject to much bleary eyed examination.

During the silence that followed a fly buzzed overhead and settled on a crumb of bread on their table, its black starkly juxtaposed against the white of the tablecloth. By force of habit, he slowly reached out a cupped hand like a claw above the fly, fingers curved and splayed slightly to let the light through. When his hand was a few inches above the fly, he brought it down in a flash, and closed his fingers into a fist, trapping the fly within.

“Never fails!” he said triumphantly. “Stupid creatures will always fly into your hand. Have you ever noticed how when a fly is trapped in a car it will generally make for the windscreen even though you open a window to let it out.”

“Maybe it doesn’t want to leave?” she said.

“Maybe it’s just blind to the opportunity or the benefit.”

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

“Maybe.”

The questions and retorts came in staccato beat, with both their eyes fixed upon each other, deep wells of sorrow, remorse or longing, no one could tell.

“So where does that put you?” he asked, this time inviting her to open up.

“Like the fly in a car. Wanting to get out, knowing there is a window open, but still banging my head against the windscreen.”

“Why?”

“Love, perhaps. Or hope? I don’t know. Maybe it’s a fear of the unknown. It is not easy to fathom the consequences of ones departure. The pain, the hurt, the damage to others, the effort to rebuild one’s life. I’ve seen it happen to a few friends. But you know what hurts the most? The fact that no matter how hard one tries it always turns out to be about money. Money as a surrogate for power, or a weapon of destruction. The constant bickering about maintenance, alimony, wealth, and inheritance. And that is what hurts the most. Why can’t we remember all the good times and part as human beings who once loved each other, rather than becoming animals and tearing each others throats for one lousy piece of meat?

“If I apply Donald Rumsfeld’s classic statement to myself – the known known of a decaying marriage, is still preferable to the unknown unknown of divorced wilderness. That’s why I don’t leave,” she concluded emphatically.

“So, theoretically, if it could be guaranteed that this ‘tearing of throats’ wouldn’t happen, that the transition to a new life would be smooth, almost painless, you would leave your husband, your children and your current life and start over?” It was half question, half proposition and he realized that it was also a projection of his own desire.

In a way he was glad that she had provided him with a perspective about himself that had escaped him all this time. The dread of the ‘unknown unknown’ was the super glue that kept him bound to the drudgery of daily life, even made it palatable and enjoyable. Yet at this point he felt drawn to this nameless, beautiful stranger sitting across from him. He could have given anything just to put his arm around her, and act as a catalyst for a change in her life, maybe even transforming his own in the process.

His right hand rested lightly on table somewhere around the an imaginary center line. He noticed that her left hand rested similarly with about an inch of space separating the two. Like neurons in the brain, he felt a jolt of attraction jump across this synapse and wondered if she felt it too.

He looked into her eyes. “Have you heard David Guetta’s song When Love Takes Over?”

“You know you can’t deny,” she completed the refrain from the hugely popular contemporary song. “Wow! You like David Guetta too! But he also said ‘One love, this is the way we found, one love, even though they’ll let you down, something something, let’s stick together now.’

“I can’t believe that we’ve made a philosopher out of a purveyor of senseless dance music! But sometimes mindless, loud, chest thumping music is what we need to knock us back into our senses.”

“But …,” he let the word trail off. Each to construct a sentence as they thought fit. “But … I really like you and would like to prove you wrong,” he would have said.

“But … even though I really like you, can’t you see that life is not as simple as men make it out to be,” she might have responded. But everything remained unsaid.

They sat this way for a minute longer, looking into each others eyes, trying to read each others minds, wondering how it would turn out for each of them alone, or both of them together, thinking what they wouldn’t dare say, for that could also possibly take them down the unknown unknown path they both so feared.

And as so often happens at airports, they were jolted out of their communion by a stern matron, a woman who belied the term that defined her – hostess – cutting through their reverie with a curt and loud, “Karachi,” as she looked him in the eye. He nodded. “Your flight is being called.” And she turned on her heel and left.

He wiped his misted eyes and shook himself. He moved his hand the last inch and touched her fingers. She let her hand remain where it was. He held her hand. She gave it to him willingly. He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. She squeezed back. With his left hand, he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and without letting go of hers, he opened the wallet and extracted his visiting card. He put it on the table.

“Please call me. I know we can change things,” he said through a mist of tears as she took the card, stood up and drew him close. The embrace was soft and gentle and he could see the tears in her eyes too as he reluctantly let go, turned and departed, looking back once from the doorway. He found her looking at him.

Moments later her flight was called too, and when the waiter came to clear the table he found a visiting card lying face down, adorned with a single colourless Rorscharch like blot. Caught up in his day to day drudgery he did not give it a second thought, and jettisoned it into his trash bin. But were he a sentimental man, he could have sworn it was a teardrop that had smudged the card.