When the giant sign 'Velvet and Silk' was put up in her little seaside hometown in northern Tamilnadu, Nakshaktra, along with her friends, thought it was a new garments shop that was arriving. It was only after the entire shop was set up, that they realised how stupid they had been.

'Velvet and Silk' was the first gourmet bakery to arrive at the quaint little town, and its smooth glassy doors, and the little bunting decorations of blue green and red made the people look at it with some sort of awe, for they had been very used to buy grainy brown-black butter biscuits for fifteen rupees a dozen, and these little fluffy cookies looked like they'd been cooked with the likes of clouds and rainbows and whatever that rich people made cakes with.

And so, it was an instant hit among the youth of that little town, who wanted somewhere, anywhere, to be. Wannabe writers, artists, couples who wanted privacy, serious exam takers, the little gourmet bakery hosted them all. In a few months the little bakery was a little buzzing place of its own accord.

Nakshaktra, or Tara, as she preferred to be called, sat in the creamy white cushioned chair, right next to the counter which contained the array of all those little cakes and cookies. She didn't know what made her arrive to this quaint little bakery alone, as she'd never been to such a place before. She immediately felt out of place, like a needle in a haystack, and fidgeted with her thumb anxiously. She didn't belong to any of the crowds here consisting of couples, serious exam takers, and the like, for she wanted to be a playwright. It wasn't cool to be a playwright anymore, but rap artists and  authors of cringy teen fiction were very much welcome. She wrote plays both in her mind as well as the little blue journal on the top shelf of her room, constantly, incessantly. It was as if her mind was attuned to create imaginary conversations and scenarios among the small mundane colloquies of everyday life.

It wasn't that she was a bad playwright, but she had that little bit of hesitation that young people who are just starting out have. It would suffice to say that she'd never spoken about her plays nor had shown her journal to anyone.

"I would like a piece of that white chocolate truffle cake please." She said to the boy watching over the counter, and he nodded. She didn't know what truffles were, but didn't want to ask, for according to her, playwrights were supposed to know anything and everything, and she'd failed in such a basic platform. It caused her a bit of internal embarrassment, and this gave way to a bit of hesitation, and there she sat, biting her lip, for she had words to write but none to say, an paradox in herself, just like how all the young people were.

She sat gazing at the silky white piece of cake, and the spoon glided in it like how scissors glided in plastic like the times she helped her father in his stationary shop. One bite of the cake and she understood why the gourmet but pricey bakery was a hit; the texture and the taste both reminded her of velvet and silk, and since she was quite an imagery person, she imagined scissors gliding through a dark lavender pure silk, by the side of shiny white pearls and a baby pink background.

"Now, what the fuck is a truffle?" She heard someone say, and turned her head quite abruptly in that direction. "And how does it differ from a normal chocolate? Everything is a scam nowadays, I say!"

And that was how Tara met Surya for the first time. Or heard his voice. Either way, it didn't matter, for Surya took his seat diagonally across her, without ever asking her for permission. He cut through the cake with his spoon rather roughly, and popped it into his mouth.

"Wow." He exclaimed.

"Does it make you think of cutting silk with scissor?" Tara heard herself say, though she had no idea where her previous embarrassment and hesitation had disappeared. Here she was, trying to make small talk with a complete stranger, but she took it with the wondrous excitement of a playwright who finds his newest subject, despite the ironies of life.

"No." He said after a pause. "It makes me think of every time my hockey stick hits the ball, and the ball glides ever so smoothly into the goal post. Best feeling in the world."

"Are you a cricketer?" Tara asked him, absentminded.

"Cricket doesn't have a goalpost, silly. It's hockey, hockey. As a matter of fact, I just ranted 'every time my hockey stick...' " He said.

"Oh." Tara said, resigning herself to eat her own little piece of white truffle cake, for his overly insolent attitude brought her out of her wondrous excitement (that playwrights have) and she became gloomy again.

A few minutes of silence ensued, and Surya began to speak, for the want of company or because he wanted to speak to Tara; the reason is still unclear; but what was important that they were able to have a discourse after that horrible dead end.

"Beautiful cake. But I had to leech over my mom for a week for that money. Like that movie where that funnily dressed guy bites other funnily dressed characters." He spoke up, and instantly, Tara returned to her own wonderful world of imageries and scenarios, and was instantly drawn in.

"Dracula?" She offered.

"Yes. Dracula." He agreed.

And ever since that day, Coffee Dracula was her own private nickname for him. Coffee, for his tanned brown skin, which reminded her of freshly roasted coffee seeds that slowly churned in the nearby coffee shop, and for his voice which was an amalgamation of husky manliness and pure eroticism combined. To Tara, that was the ultimate compliment she could give a man-you are like coffee.

It would suffice to say that she was instantly hooked, and there was simply no turning back. All these years, she 'd written scenes after scenes like some sort of a maniacal animal. But once she read them, she felt as though something was missing. To put it in words, they lacked soul. It wasn't that they were bad, they were reasonably good. But they weren't unique.

And somehow, within minutes of meeting this wonderful coffee man, she felt a superabundance of ideas trickling, both mundane and awesome, from futuristic to historical, the usual good-meets-bad to random scenes, everything and everything.

"So, how did you leech of your mom?" She asked him.

"I told her, that I ....I rather not say." He trailed off embarrassed, though it was perfectly clear to Tara. She smiled comfortingly, hoping to convey that she wasn't judgmental, and that this was a pretty funny story.

"I am Surya. Second year Biology student at the College. Wannabe hockey player." He introduced suddenly, and extended his hand. She took it and shook a couple of times.

"Nakshaktra, or you can call me Tara. Second year English Literature student. Wannabe playwright."

"Cool, Nats; wannabe playwright, may I see some of your work?" He said.

"Only if you let me watch you play." She said.

And that's how Surya vowed to himself to become a regular, which would mean ten times the effort now, and Tara vowed to herself to write a decent piece, which meant less of sleep and more of creative daydreaming, for they were smitten, and since they weren't normal young people who set time frames to meet once again, they parted.

But they'd meet. For they were there, out of anywhere in the world, and so was the quaint little gourmet bakery with its white chocolate truffle cake.