Love Is Symphony |✓

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It was raining.

I took a break from wiping off the brown stain on the corner table and watched the round droplets slide down the smooth surface of the glass outside, decorating the view with dotted drops of rainwater. A smile blossomed on my face.  The rhythmic sound of rain pattering down onto the glass panels of Infusion was an anomaly. The small dainty, tea cafe in the heart of Los Angeles rarely experience rain. In the three years that I'd been working both as a cashier and server for the cafe, I was only able to engross on wonderful nights like these twice. Maybe the rain would bring more customers in.

It was a slow Tuesday evening, and usually, at times like this most people opt for a cup of steaming hot coffee from Bean Bags, Infusion's tightest competitor at the corner of the block instead. Cecile was complaining all day, telling us that being a manager at a soon-to-be bankrupt cafe wasn't her ideal job.

The shop was empty of customers who usually piled in during the mornings and afternoons. Only the sound of the pattering rain, the occasional swish of liquid, and Imogen's humming to the tune of a pop song playing in the background was heard. Even I, who was usually bubbly and bright even during rainstorms secretly paused at the task of repeatedly wiping the table to stare outside of the glass. The sad weather didn't appear to mind sharing its sorrow.

Assorted colors and sizes of umbrellas filled my view. Random people with different looks on their faces moving in their own speed were like a blur of colors from the rain-tinted glass panels. It was like a kaleidoscope of coats, umbrellas and wet shirts all bundled up together, moving in random directions as they all speed-walked to wherever they were headed to.

The view asked—no—begged for a frown to appear on my face. It was as if the woven colors blended together to whisper softly in my ear, telling me to see life—the world—as it really was.

Chaotic. Unpredictable. Sad.

And as soon as I felt the thought of sadness start to consume me, I snapped out of it as quickly as I could and forced a tight-lipped smile to my chapped lips. Melancholy was the last thing I needed right now. I began scrubbing the table with more force. That was when I heard it. The sound of bells that chimed together in that very familiar lively tune, announcing the arrival of a customer who'd drink tea at eight thirty in the evening on a rainy Tuesday night.

I turned to look at the entrance of the café to see who in the city of Los Angeles would drop by for a quick sip of an herbal tea, and there I saw you. You in an all-black get up. Black tee, dark jeans, and black high top Doc Martens that left muddy footprints on the mahogany wooden floor of the shop that I just mopped a few minutes ago.

You were angelic in a devilish kind of way. You were looming—intimidating in fact. It was as if upon your arrival, the  rhythmic sound of rain paused to give way to you. A show stopper in other words. Your hair that was as black as ebony was wet from the rain. It was pressed down to your head with some strands that curled from the water sticking to the sides of your gorgeous face. I let my eyes the liberty of traveling further down your face, taking in the small furrow of your eyebrows, your pointed nose and thin lips that were pale from the cold. I was ogling like a teenage girl, but I couldn't help it. You were gorgeous and gorgeous men rarely stopped by to drink tea. What intrigued me the most aside from the huge guitar case that was slung behind your back was the small piercing at the corner of your lower lip. It was so small that it was barely visible, but it caught the light of the room, dancing under its brightness. Men with piercings were never my ideal type, but damn it, I was entranced.

My searching eyes slowly traveled back up to the windows to your soul, almost sighing at the sight of your gorgeous bluish-gray eyes that were squinting at the chalkboard menu above the counter. They were a very lovely pair that brought life to your dark persona. A beautiful swirl of contrast that made you look much more of an approachable person than a six-foot tall guy that could easily tackle me and Imogen to the ground.

"Um, hi! Welcome to Infusion," Imogen cheerfully said from behind the counter, straightening her stance after a minute of shamelessly staring at you.

I couldn't help but chuckle when I realized that we did the very same thing. We both drank in the flowing view of a dashing man like you, and the mischievous wink that Imogen tried to discretely throw at me was enough evidence.

You glanced briefly at her, your expression remained to be impassive as you looked back at the menu board. "I'll have a Wintermelon Milk Tea, large with a slice of dark chocolate cake," you said as you rocked on the balls of your heels, reaching out a hand to adjust the strap of your guitar case.

Soothing.

If I was asked to describe your voice in one word, it'd definitely be soothing. Just like a cup of warm tea after a long day, a soft pillow during a headache, a small caress that was light as a feather.

My eyes that never strayed from you widened with interest at the sight of a tattoo that crawled up your forearm in elegant black swirls that stood out against your pale skin. It was a calligraphy. A phrase that was obviously French, all looped together in intricate curls of woven letters. L' amour est une symphonie , it read, making me frown as I tried to dig up my brain for four years worth of Spanish class. Nope. Apparently French and Spanish didn't have the same sound.

The sound of the cash register's ding startled me and I quickly pulled my eyes away off your arm to work back on wiping the tables. But not before getting a glimpse of your bluish-gray eyes that caught me looking, and in that moment, with the sound of rain, Imogen's footsteps, Shawn Mendes's guitar strumming and the blender, I looked back at you—looked straight in your eyes...

Then blushed like a scarlet rose in the middle of spring.