Over Coffee

It all seems so foolish to me now, poetic thoughts of trembling hands and moist brows. I sit calmly, allowing the cup to warm my hands, momentarily forgetting the miscellaneous discarded food wrappers on the table between us. Right now all I can concentrate on is your beautiful brown eyes as they stare into the bottom of your coffee cup. These are the moments I most enjoy, when you are at your most peaceful. I notice the small up-curl of your lips as you smile content in your own happy place and it makes me smile.1

Looking up your smile widens and you get that grin on your face, that cheeky, sexy grin that made me fall in love with you and a pang comes to my heart. I sit here, drawn in completely by everything that is you; your smile, those eyes, the stray strands of hair that hang down, almost obscuring your eye. In my eyes you are Aphrodite and Helen of Troy rolled into one and I only wish that you felt about me as I do about you.2

I can’t help but recall the words of Neil Gaiman as a sense of longing creeps into my very being. I want to lean across the table and embrace you. Not the embrace of mutual friends that we have so often shared but the embrace of lovers. I long to curl my arms around the small of your back, to hold you close as I gaze into your eyes and let you fill me. Once more a pang of hurt strikes my heart and I regret my narcissism.3

My mind returns to the moment and I see that you’ve lowered your cup and there’s that questioning look in your eyes. Even your question, “What?” seems so seductive to me. I long to tell you the truth, to declare my love for you but I can’t face another rejection.4

“Nothing,” that’s the only word that I find myself able to say. But then it says everything. There is no one thing that is bothering me at this moment. Here I am, sitting with the first girl that has ever made me feel happy, truly happy and I can’t tell her how I feel because I know I will only face rejection.5

Momentarily I realise that I must be staring and shamefully take in the scene around us. A waitress, clad in black, pushes a cart around, picking up the discarded remnants of customers’ lunches. Mothers play happily with their children, holding them in the air or leaning over a buggy, all with love in their eyes. Outside in St. Stephen’s Green, lovers walk arm in arm and the latest batch of tourists takes in the sights that have become like a second home to me.6

Once more I look across the table to the only thing about this city that I truly enjoy. I glance at the table, covered in our usual mess, as you stretch. I smile to myself to think how modest you are. You who has enchanted me so believes that you will grow old alone – how I would love to be there with you.7

The waitress interrupts us to inform us that this section of the restaurant is now closing and I know that it also brings a close to this little scene. Standing, I pick our tray up from its place, leaning against a chair leg, and place all our rubbish on it. By now you have your coat on you and I quickly pull mine on. As we leave the restaurant I know that I will only have to wait a week to sit with you again but right now I’m only thinking of the long trip home, missing you. As we part ways at the centre entrance I smile and think of how I shall write at story, just for you. That is my curse, I can say in writing what I can never say to your face. And as the wind whips playfully around my face, I call on happier times to warm me on the journey home.