Cafe Latte

The well-worn paperback novel sat ready and waiting in his hand, held open by a thumb. Eyes were busy, though, wondering as he watched. Lax, a cigarette dangled on his lips. He was the epitomy of "cool cat," all the way down from his black turtleneck and sportsjacket to combat boots hidden under crisp black pants.1

And those eyes, peering from behind tiny ovals, tinted red. 2

I continue to stare, and so does he. We are not truly seeing each other, but merely parts of ourselves. I say so as I sit down across from him. This brings the smallest of twitches to his lips, a supressed smile.3

I twist my paper cup, staring into the rich depths. Allergic to caffiene, who ever heard of such an absurdity? To breath in the lovingly acrid scent of coffee was more than enough for me anymore. Taste never was worth much.4

He asks me a question. I ignore it.5

"We are strangers together," I murmur, eyes glancing off the cool metal tabletop.6

He nods. Perfect sense, he says without speaking. Eyes fall to trail upon the words in his book.7

I don't exist, and neither does he.8

I watch the steam rise from my cup, smiling as the scents reach my nose. Sweet aromas mingle, cold from the outside, hot from my coffee. Decaf. What a joke. I laugh in spite of myself.9

He looks up, wishing to be a part of the joke. A simple hum is all the wording his request needs, reminding me of nothing more than a wide-eyed child, curious as the cat I called him.10

"This isn't real," I say, continuing to laugh.11

"I know. But you want it to be," he smirks, thinking he knows my reasons for laughter.12

Sorrowful eyes are turned upon him, and the din, white noise, of the cafe stops. Everything stops. I flick the bell on my collar and sigh. "I have to pay attention now." The words are sluggish, unwanted. They leave a foul taste in my mouth as I finish.13

He nods, and fades with the scene of the cafe.14

I look up from my notes, a well-worn paperback novel hanging limply in my hand. I'm sure I've been staring blankly for at least half an hour. My professor gives me a disapproving look, but he's got another forty or fifty students to worry about. I smile and let myself fade.15