It was a Saturday ritual for us — to meet at nine for dinner at my apartment and stay up together till we both fell asleep. Each Saturday evening we laid a circular wooden table with a teacup roses spread, and placed two candles with a Persian blue vase — he never forgot to bring fresh roses for that. He insisted that we both stayed together each Saturday night. Usually we ordered our favourite Thai take away and polished it with a bottle of red; in a rare case it was a fancy rosè or a champage.
It never occurred to me why a simple Saturday night dinner within the closed walls of a small apartment would matter so much to someone, because all we did was talk about our lives, shared some laughs and drank. Not that i complained but i always wondered why we never planned anything else. He would always tell me that it’s a given that as long as we are together and in the same city we will have to be together each Saturday. I never argued but I never understood his logic till we broke up. After a long time, I could plan my own Saturdays the way i wanted to. I attended all the parties with my other single friends, we posted our drunk selfies and stayed up till dawn. Although, a strange thing happened — after each fabulous Saturday night I had to live through a depressing Sunday morning. I woke up alone, mostly hungover and had no one beside me — and, that’s when i really tried remembering my previous Saturday night and sighed.