Coffeeshop

Passing through the hardly extravagant doors, I quickly found a vacant table and sat to wait. My eyes cruised over the abstract paintings, strung from the walls, the delicately carved wooden chairs at my table as well as the others. The mid-morning sunlight poured softly through a few immense windows and filled the tiny café with sleepy cheer. I began to stare off into the outside scenery of rushing people and potted plants beyond a window across from me when a quick jerk of movement altered my focus. I sat staring at a bald, heavy-set curmudgeon, a silhouette in the corner of the room. He was hunched over a bulky computer, clicking away on the keys. His fingers thudded so heavily against the plastic, I played with notion of a few springing loose and sailing into his bitter black coffee with messy splashes. One might have thought this man angry at first glance, had they not looked closer to observe a sweet smile plastered across his pinkish face. This rather stunning feature on an otherwise average man gripped my imagination in a death hold and compelled it to wander. I had seen a similar display of emotion—in the mirror, upon my lover’s face. This was a man fallen a victim to true love. I then saw him in a new light. His fingers seemed not to pound so much anymore as fall gracefully into the rhythm of a long song. He was no longer a silhouette, the darkness intruding the lively scene, no; he was the sun gleaming behind him through the glass. He was glowing. I could then see him as his lover did, beaming with devotion and adoration—for her.





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