This Thing Between Us

now

I dream of you that night.

I dream of your brown curls and pink lips. I dream of the flour covered shirt you first wore. And I remember every little bit about that day.
I remember kicking at leaves, and hating myself for being so awkward. I hated that my mind went blank and that someone - a stranger - could make that happen.
I hadn't expected to talk with someone, you see. I thought I could go to 'this café Peggy had recommended, fill up my coffee tin, and leave'. I didn't expect to want to come back. But I did the next day. I found myself standing on the pastel pink mat - the same spot as the day before -, and looking like an absolute idiot. My wet black hair covered my eyes. I cussed at myself for not wearing a coat, when it was so obviously about to rain.

It took me a while to find you again because you were wearing something different (a bright yellow T and denim trousers). And I only recognised you because of your eyes. They locked with mine and I could feel my cheeks burn and my heart sink to my shoes.

It's empty, I said. Your signature laugh followed, one that I had grown to love over the years.

What, you asked. You were wiping a table down in the far corner and you weren't facing me anymore, but your voice still tickled my chest like a feather. The coffee tin, you asked, finished yesterday's load already? I still remember your smirk as you looked at me from across the room.

Your café. It's empty, I said. I did wonder why, because the day before was busy, and then was, well, not.

It's not my café; I only work here, you said. You were pushing in chairs and setting the tables for the next day. You looked so in your element, I could only wonder how often you did this - and all by yourself at that. Late shitty shifts that don't pay well but they pay enough, you said, walking back over to the counter. How about you? Has society chained you with the responsibilities of life?

I don't like telling people 'my job', it only offers opportunities to bring up the fact that my job is not a proper job and that I get paid too much to sit around and do nothing AND aren't the stock markets just falling lately. I write poetry, sometimes. See? That doesn't sound as cool as 'I'm a lawyer and kick ass or I'm the boss of a major company - and kick ass'.

A poet, huh, you hopped onto one of the bar stools and twiddled around on it. D'you know what I always say, you arms were spread out, like you were painting some sort of picture in the air, never fall in love with a poet because they will break you in the most beautiful way possible. D'you like that? Then you crossed your arms over and looked at me, almost like you were asking for approval. Consider me a poet, huh.

Well, I write sort of long poetry. I scratched at my head and look around the café. It looked different in the dark. When my eyes fell back on you, I noticed you patting the stool besides you; so before my brain could back out of it, my feet were moving forwards.

So like angst-y teenage movies, you asked as I sat myself down besides you.

Yeah, something like that, I chuckled. You may have been the first person to compare my nonsense words to the John Green genre.

Cool. And you may have been the first person to not judge me for being a grown man writing about young teenagers. The name's Sam, by the way. You reach your hand out to me, and I take it, giving it a slight shake.

Noah. All I could think was, wow, this guy has extremely soft hands.

Noah? You English? Your eyes lit up once again like you had only just noticed my thick English accent, or like I was some sort of mythical creature.

Yeah.

Sam's not English, you explained, dropping my hand. You were looking straight ahead, making some sort of a face that resembled pouting. Although it sounds quite posh, doesn't it? Samuel (it sounded more like Sam-yoo-ell) Like a prince. You jumped up from your seat, faced me, and bowed. Sir Sam-yoo-ell, your horse and carriage are waiting, my good prince. I let out an obnoxiously loud laugh - head tilted back, eyes closed and all. Was that really how you imagined all of England to behave? My parents are just really religious. Got it from the Books of Samuel in one of the testaments.. You were giggling too now. And I found it difficult to breath, and I'd never laughed so much, and I'd never felt so happy to be in a room with a practical stranger. The room was quiet then, apart from for our heavy breathing. Then our gazes met again, and I felt like I was glowing, but you were smiling so goddamn wide, and said, I'm talking too much, aren't I?

A bit, yeah. I didn't mean it, though, and I said it with such a smile that it was clear - to me at least - that I never wanted you to stop talking.

What followed next was silence, but the good, comfortable kind.

So the shop, I said, diverting back to the original topic, why's it empty?

We're closed, you deadpanned. And I suddenly felt so stupid. Of course, I thought, probably why there was no one else, and why you were cleaning, and God, I'm an idiot.

Oh?

Yeah, normally we close at four but yesterday was rather busy so we stayed open a bit longer.

You were still standing there, but I could see your smile fade. I should go.

Why? I think even you were shocked at how desperate you sounded.

Because you're closed, I say, gathering my stuff and packing them back into my laptop bag. You know, I've probably got something to write, or something.

What' you writing? Even back then you were so curious. And even back then I couldn't resist it.

It's nothing, I said, standing up.

Tell me, pleaaaase!  You dragged out your sentence, and I didn't like the attention you were giving me, I didn't like that I didn't deserve it.

I haven't started yet but I should probably-

I can help.

What? What did you mean you can help? I don't think you knew either.

I mean, you stuttered over your words, and your cheeks tinted a shade of deep pink. I've still got to clean up a bit, but you can take the window seat or I could make you a coffee and, you pull at your sleeves, I mean, you could write here.

And I did. I stayed until it was dark outside and then you closed the shop and we walked together to the end of the street and I lived to the left but you had to go to the right to catch the last bus home. I stuffed my hands in my jacket, and did some sort of skip, because for the first time I had actually gotten a glimpse of what it felt like to be 'proud'; I must thank you entirely for that.

When I wake up I can still feel it. The room is dark, and must it be rather early, but I can still feel your presence and your youth. And I can still taste the coffee you made me in a Star Wars mug. I remember you telling me how you bought that mug at a car boot sale, and how you talked to the buyer about the movies for half an hour, until the young girl gave you the mug for free. But when she wasn't looking, you slipped a tenner in her galactic piggy bank.

My heart warms up a bit as I cuddle into the duvets with a smile on my face.

I was still stuck in the dream, you see, I was still stuck at the beginning, and for a while -in that blissful moment- I forgot you ever even left.