3.11.2009
Falling In Love in a Coffee Shop @ 1:56 PM
a series of fragments I wrote while listening to Prof. Harrington talk about differential equations.----------------
From now on, I'll have a label specifically for my short writings.
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He bends forward to warm his nose with the steam coming from his coffee cup, rubbing his palms on the porcelain curvature of this early morning ritual. The next person through the door was an aging man in retrospectively fashionable suspenders and a black fedora. He is followed closely by a young catch, blonde, curvy, and tall.
Ten minutes ago, he was the only person in the lonely cafe, ordering the usual black espresso; other than that, the waiter behind the counter knew not his name nor anything else aside from his choice of coffee.
To a curious bystander, he could pass for just another caffeine enthusiast, there for his first dose of the day. But if you were a regular, you would know. He sat in the same corner, nervously, eyes seemingly glued on the door, warming his hands as he waited. If not for his clothes, you would suspect that he never leaves this cafe. But he does. He always leaves after two hours of surveying who comes in and out of that black frame and see-through glass which rings a tiny bell for every disturbance.
Let me tell you his story. I first noticed him last year, about late summer. He was just another regular customer, who got his coffee to go. He came in, bought coffee, then left. That was his routine. He never once stopped to gaze at the interesting signatures on the coffee tables nor the homey ruggedness of every wooden chair. That changed. November, I think it was. He showed up with a beautiful woman with enviable auburn hair and the clearest porcelain skin life can create. They sat on that table by the corner where he sits now, happy from fits of laughter and who knows what else. They stayed until closing time.
The next morning he came in alone, but instead of getting his coffee to go, he sat down in that spot where he had been in temporary euphoria with the woman. But he was alone, his laughter replaced with the silence of hopeful longing. This became his routine, and frankly, I think he never really left this coffee shop since then.
From now on, I'll have a label specifically for my short writings.
----------------
He bends forward to warm his nose with the steam coming from his coffee cup, rubbing his palms on the porcelain curvature of this early morning ritual. The next person through the door was an aging man in retrospectively fashionable suspenders and a black fedora. He is followed closely by a young catch, blonde, curvy, and tall.
Ten minutes ago, he was the only person in the lonely cafe, ordering the usual black espresso; other than that, the waiter behind the counter knew not his name nor anything else aside from his choice of coffee.
To a curious bystander, he could pass for just another caffeine enthusiast, there for his first dose of the day. But if you were a regular, you would know. He sat in the same corner, nervously, eyes seemingly glued on the door, warming his hands as he waited. If not for his clothes, you would suspect that he never leaves this cafe. But he does. He always leaves after two hours of surveying who comes in and out of that black frame and see-through glass which rings a tiny bell for every disturbance.
Let me tell you his story. I first noticed him last year, about late summer. He was just another regular customer, who got his coffee to go. He came in, bought coffee, then left. That was his routine. He never once stopped to gaze at the interesting signatures on the coffee tables nor the homey ruggedness of every wooden chair. That changed. November, I think it was. He showed up with a beautiful woman with enviable auburn hair and the clearest porcelain skin life can create. They sat on that table by the corner where he sits now, happy from fits of laughter and who knows what else. They stayed until closing time.
The next morning he came in alone, but instead of getting his coffee to go, he sat down in that spot where he had been in temporary euphoria with the woman. But he was alone, his laughter replaced with the silence of hopeful longing. This became his routine, and frankly, I think he never really left this coffee shop since then.
Labels: Random, Short Stories