I’ve been wondering for the past two days why you walked in and ordered two cups of coffee and sat across an empty chair, staring into nothing for a good two hours.
That afternoon left me wondering how many times you’ve sat opposite no one, letting your drink get cold, your work forgotten, your hands nervously drumming the oak table.
I knew, I just did, that you weren’t waiting for someone. You didn’t once look at the doors or check the time. You just sat there, sipping on cups of warm cappuccinos, one after the other.
And I don’t know why I wanted to walk over and sit next to you and ask you if your day went well, if your boss was giving you trouble, if you’d like to talk about the weather, for all I cared.
Because you looked so sombre and tired of nothing at all and everything all at once, you looked so quiet but so interesting that I’m writing about someone who for all I know may be a serial killer.
But you’re not. I know, I just do. Your eyes were kind, your face far too calm, your fingers too delicate, your skin too flushed and your posture too composed to be anything but a lonely grown up, possibly missing home and your mother’s shepherds pie.
How I wish I was one of those people who could simply walk up to someone sitting alone in a coffee shop and talk to them about their life and not worry about what would happen, what could happen.
But I’m not. I fret, I worry, I over think everything and sometimes am so impulsive, it’s disastrous.
And so I’ll resort to writing this, hoping you’re out there and that this by way of fate, by way of kismet reaches you and you take some comfort, some solace in knowing, that the girl at the table next to you noticed.
*real events, real time, real people*