Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
plot by me 1261 words
Every Monday morning she comes stumbling in, blazer half on and hair tied up in a little claw clip. She shrugs on the blazer over her shoulders, shudders, and makes her way to her usual table. She always picks the one in direct sunlight. She sets her laptop down on the table along with some papers that are ironically organized neatly.
Once she gets herself set up to procrastinate for about an hour, she walks over to the counter and orders a large latte with half whole milk, half almond milk, two packets of Splenda and caramel drizzle on top. I take her order and laugh a bit to myself because I can never quite seem to understand her milk situation. She tells me it's complicated, which, indeed, it is.
Complicated like her I assume, because once I've made her coffee she's already gone back to her seat by the sunkissed window so I must hand deliver it to her and she takes it with an oblivious smile. I grin back and walk to the register, watching as she redoes the complicated twist in her hair before she puts the claw clip in.
A strand of her dark hair falls out of the clip and she blows hair from her lip to make it drift a little to the side. And then the girl, the beautiful girl, who I adore so much yet know nothing about, begins to sip on her failed attempt at a gut friendly concoction. Perhaps whole milk only agrees with her partially.
Somewhere around half an hour later, after she's taken a grand five sips from the paper cup, she approaches the counter once more and asks for a herbal tea in the blue mug displayed on the counter. I nod my head and ask; the usual? She nods her head back and walks to her table, leaving me to prepare the earl gray tea.
I make the tea and transfer it to the blue mug which is supposed to be for display only, but how can I say no to the girl that I adore so much, yet know nearly nothing about? The steam floods up into my pores as I carry the mug to her and place it on the table graciously. Every now and then I hope that she'll invite me to join her at the table. Here, have a seat. Enjoy this earl gray tea in the blue mug with me. But, she never does.
I watch from behind the counter as she sips on the tea a great deal more than she did on the latte. She runs her fingers angrily through her hair. Work emails I assume. She leans her head onto her hands and types away. That's a sound I love; the noise produced from her perfectly manicured nails delicately tapping each key on the keyboard.
It's a synchronized movement that usually follows with a flustered sigh again as she takes the last sips of her earl gray tea from the blue mug. I like the rosy color she wears on her cheeks. It accentuates the high cheek bones on her face and I also love the way she brings the coral color onto the tip of her nose ever so delicately.
And then, it was time for my particularly strange yet beautiful girl to leave. She packed all of her belongings into her bag somewhere around ten-thirty and put her blazer back on, heading out through the back entrance. This time, she gives me a small smile and nods her head upwards to say goodbye.
I nod back, a much wider grin spread across my face.
____
The next day, the same beautiful girl comes stumbling into the coffee shop at her normal time. She sets her belongings down and does the usual ritual of ordering the bitter yet complicated coffee to sip on.
She comes back to the counter a little while later and examines the menu as if she'd magically decide to order something else. She gets the usual tea and gives me a smile. Her eyes linger on my name tag a bit longer. Oh, how foolish would I be to pour my heart out to this woman that I love so much, yet know so little about, when she barely even knows my name?
The kettle whistles and I take it off of the heat, setting it onto the smooth counter top to cool a bit. I select the tea bag from the cupboard and tie a knot around the handle to prevent it from slipping. Once when she returned her mug, she commented on what a helpful gesture that was. I've thought about it ever since.
I pour the mixture of steam and water into the blue mug and glance over my shoulder to make sure she doesn't see me. Of course, she's lost in her own world of messy papers and work emails. I grab the packet that the tea bag was inside of and rip it open to reveal a sea of white. I grab a pen from a nearby jar and scribble out a quick note. I haven't thought this through clearly, so my hands burn as I use the small piece of scotch tape to stick the note to the bottom of the mug. I leave the corner sticking out just barely, so she will hopefully notice.
I lean my elbows onto the counter as she approaches quickly, smiling at me and taking the mug back to her sun-kissed seat traced with the remnants of yesterday's drink. Her long fingers nearly brush mine as she makes a comment about how hot the drink is and I stumble, forgetting how to speak english.
I laugh a little and feel my cheeks burn read as she looks at me a moment longer, her face tender and eyes soft. Thank you, she tells me and sits. I watch as she drinks all of the tea over the course of about 15 minutes. Her fingers tap against the chipping wooden table ever so slightly, as if she, too, is impatiently waiting for something.
And then, in the blink of an eye, I see her peel the note from beneath the blue ceramic mug and examine it. A soft blush spreads across her olive colored cheeks as her brown eyes crinkle on the sides. She sets the mug down and the note beside it, then folds it up and places it into her purse. Is this what rejection feels like? Misery? Heartbreak?
Her heeled shoes pitter patter across the floor as she puts the mug into a bin with a sign that reads 'DIRTY' above it, and she approaches the register with a smile. It's a date, she tells me, and tosses her hair over her shoulder. She turns to leave before I even have a chance to respond.
And now, she is not just the girl I love so much yet know nothing about as I stare at her from across the living room. Her legs draped over the arm of the sofa, her hair resting naturally across her small chest. She reads a book. The sunlight catches her eyes perfectly and the dark brown becomes a sea of golden hope and opportunity as she looks over to me, who sits at my usual spot on the piano, and smiles.
Now, she is the girl who I love, and know inside and out.
