A Small Note Found — Flirtation at Inappropriate Places
It began innocently.
A white corridor.
A stethoscope.
A pause just long enough to ruin a reputation.
The gorgeous doctor with specs at a Bangalore hospital finished the diagnosis and asked, professionally, politely:
“Do you have any questions?”
And this idiot—
freshly upgraded by pharmaceuticals—answered:
“Are you married?”
— not a question.
A misfire.
“What?”
She froze.
“What?” — I froze harder.
Less curiosity.
More ECG of my impulse control.
Only later did it hit me:
those words escaped under heavy medication.
Raw. Unfiltered. Truth without consent.
Relieving.
Humiliating.
Peak efficiency.
Cut to—
A therapy camp.
Morning.
My sworn enemy.
I hate yoga.
I hate exercise.
I especially hate early yoga.
Yet I set three alarms—
not for wellness,
but for her.
Breath. Balance.
Sunlight stretched thin.
A yoga mat pretending to be discipline.
My arms refused to cooperate.
My legs improvised.
Somewhere between Surya Namaskar and Kuchipudi,
I lost all dignity.
One thing, however, remained laser-focused:
my gaze.
Late 30s.
Unmarried.
Older. Calmer. Sharper.
The kind of woman who carries authority
without announcing it.
Alpha energy, minus the noise.
Deeply aware of who she is—
and who she’s not.
That awareness?
Catnip.
The session ended. Mercy.
She walked over, casually curious:
“I haven’t seen you before. First time here?
How was your experience?”
And I replied—
no rehearsal, no self-rescue:
“Ma’am, you’re extremely gorgeous,
and you’re the sole reason I showed up this early.”
— honesty wearing humor’s clothes,
or humor committing suicide by honesty.
Pin-drop silence.
The room collectively gasped.
Witnesses stared like they’d just seen
a live social execution.
Me?
Already drafting my apology to civilization.
Then—
she smiled.
Not embarrassed.
Not flattered.
Just… amused.
Graceful. Grounded. Unshaken.
That smile did something curious:
it pardoned the crime
without endorsing it.
I stood there, red-faced,
the undisputed jerk of the morning—
yet oddly relieved.
She acknowledged it silently.
No theatrics.
No discomfort.
Just composure.
Diagnosis:
Not recklessness.
Not intent.
A chronic condition—
the heart forgetting context
when beauty walks in unannounced.
Prognosis:
Incurable.
Managed with silence.
Occasional relapses.
And honestly?
Some uncalculated bets
are worth it—
if only for a priceless reaction
instead of a well-planned life.
