two years, three words║eleanor & park

6.

Park

When Eleanor walked into the café the next day, Park thought that this time, for sure, he was hallucinating.

She was the Eleanor of two years ago. A man's shirt and tie. Torn jeans, with pieces of fabric pinned randomly to them. Her hair, long and curly and red, decorated with fishing lures.

God, she was so ridiculously beautiful.

He was waiting at their table, but she walked right by him, up to the counter. She ordered a drink. Park couldn't stop staring at her, even when she finally sat down across from him.

"You look... great," he said.

She smiled slightly. That old mischievous Eleanor-smile.

"I look like a sad hobo clown," she said.

"I love it," he said.

She smiled wider.

He smiled back, but then his smile faded.

"So... you're leaving today."

"Yes," she said.

He bit his lip. Panicking. He couldn't let her go. Not now.

"Oh..." Eleanor looked down at her coffee. "I forgot to order cream."

"I'll get you some," said Park. He got up and walked behind the counter. The cream was way in the back, so it took him a moment to find.

When he lifted his head, Eleanor was gone.

Park rushed back to the table, then to the door. She wasn't in the street. She was gone.

He tried to steady his breathing. Maybe she had gone to the bathroom. He went and knocked at the door. No answer. He opened it. The stall was empty.

He wanted to hit himself. How could he have let this happen?

He walked back to their table. Eleanor's coffee was still there. There was a tip of a dollar on the table. She left a freakin' tip. Park picked it up.

A piece of paper fell out of the folded bill.

Park stared at it for a moment, before snatching it up as if it might disappear.

He unfolded it with trembling fingers.

It was written in red pen, in Eleanor's handwriting.

Three words.

And a telephone number.