Cafés and Strangers

•Jeden•

Sitting there, I try to forget him, to forget what he did to me, but instead I forget how to breathe. It feels like everything around me temporarily pauses starting with the sound of those chiming bells.

By nature, I'm a curious person; if something even hints at wanting my attention, it has it. This is where you find me, looking up to see who it is that opened the door.

As cliché as it is, time stops the second I lay eyes on him: his eyes are the color of the churning storm clouds just outside, unruly curls a dark mass of silk flopping against his forehead. Of all the times and places to meet an angel: it's the lunch rush in a café.

I believe I've forgotten how to breathe; is that possible? Has anyone in the world, other than myself, ever experienced a feeling like that? Like everything is speeding past, but also creeping by? Like their heart is going to burst right out of their chest from the incessant hammering, but also not beating at all? Like you can't breathe, but the moment itself is a breath of much-needed air after being under water for far too long?

It's like my entire body refuses to function further; everything moving in slow-motion - the playback after a football play no one really knows what to make of until the slo-mo clears everything up, but much too fast to the point it disorients and confuses and everything is made ten times worse than it previously was.

That's what was going on: me with my mug tipped up to my lips but not far enough for me to actually get any coffee while I simply drown in the essence of him.

I've never felt like this, not a single person from my past has brought on this God-awful, but glorious feeling; I've never felt so alive, yet on the edge of a cliff about to take the final plunge.

"Hi," in the midst of my internal battle, he's made his way over to my booth. He has this smile where one side of his lips are higher than the other, a type of crooked smirk that serves the purpose of bending every female to his will alone.

"Hi," I must give myself credit; I don't sound nearly as breathless or disoriented as I feel.

I imagine he gets that kind of reaction a lot, the breathless and disbelieving acknowledgement that he said something, though unsure if he is real and speaking directly to the poor soul he chose as a victim that day.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" He's already sliding into the booth, so it's not like I could reject him.

I have a strong feeling he doesn't hear 'no' often and it makes me want to turn him away just to see how he would react; but I also don't want to risk losing him before he's ever mine.

"By all means," I reply in the same confident voice from before.

"Thank you," that smile again, "I'm new around here, as you might've noticed, and I just don't know what to order."

"Have you tried looking at the menu?" I flush right after the words slip through my filter, about to apologize when he laughs.

"No, I suppose I haven't; but, why would I waste my time on a menu searching for something that sounds good just to receive something unbelievably horrible when you could advise the decision?"

"Charmer," I mutter in response to his grin, loud enough for my ears.

I sigh and sip from my coffee, swirling the creamy liquid around and trying to grip tight to reality: "I'd advise the BLT, simply delicious."

"Like a girl-next-door?"

I stare at him, uncertain of how I should respond to his innuendo: "not exactly."

"Okay, so a BLT," he nods, attempting to hide his laugh with something that resembles the sound one makes when clearing their throat, "anything else?"