It was 6:30 am. He was there, standing outside the door but not sure if he should knock.
She had called him last evening and asked him to come. He had hesitated. Not long.
Yet, long enough for her to quickly add “if you can, otherwise…”. And giving no other details, she had disconnected the phone in that infuriating way women behaved when they did not hear an immediate, enthusiastic ‘yes!’
It was 6:30 am and there was a bunch of red roses lying on the floor, next to the garbage. They looked fresh, but not fresh enough to have come in the morning. And the half empty bottle of champagne…certainly not a breakfast item.
It was 6:30 am. Maybe her husband had returned earlier than she had expected. Maybe she was not even in there. Maybe she was in there with someone else?
Why, why, why had he taken that one moment longer to reply?
It was 6:30 am. How long could he stand there, indecisive, before somebody saw him, just standing there, looking suspicious?
Well, there would be no point in him crying over spoilt milk, yes spoilt, not spilled.
So, without knocking, he left two packets of fresh milk at the door, slipped the bill under the door and the milkman walked away.
This happens only in India.