Omaesan

When I came into the cafe, he was sitting there as always, at the back table in the corner. Alone. His eyes rested on a small, leather-bound book in his hand, like they always did, and the steam from a neglected cup of coffee blurred his features ever-so slightly.1

Everyday he was here, bent over some new world of pages to discover, his hair, which had been stripped of its natural hue, a smooth, hot auburn fell in his eyes as they scanned each word. His eyes were like glass - so blue that i can't believe they were born to him. They must be contacts.2

Though he was still absolutely stunning.3

He was almost feminine in his gentle beauty. His hand rested under his chin as he read, and his face, which was placid as a dream, ever so often would react to whatever he was reading, be it a smile, a gasp, or a grimace; all of which seem to complement him so well. If only all people were so beautiful. He turned his face for only a moment, and his countenance, which had been so lovely to behold from a glance became soft, his features melting into a scarlet background of old, peeling wallpaper.4

I had come to this shop for years, grabbing a hot cup of life before heading off to my death sentence behind a desk, and everyone told me that he'd always been here.5

I'd just never noticed him before.6

I went home alone that evening, his image still in my mind as i walked. He was so startling, so new, so absolutely beautiful. And even for a man, it was breathtaking. If i had been Oscar Wilde, I would have painted him in my mind, and made him forever my beautiful stranger. I would have drawn him with words in my garden, painted him in prose with butterflies on his shoulder, and illuminated him with adjectives, making his cheeks darken from attraction, his eyes sparkle with compassion, his lips curl with sweetness. If i had been of a higher wrung on the ladder of prose, i would have painted him a thousand words, ten thousand and more. But instead i tossed in my room with my eyes on the ceiling, my mind on his eyes.7

The next day, I did the same before I came to work. And there he was again, sitting like he always did, with a new leather-bound book in his grasp, and a quiet wrinkle of good-humor on his lips. I watched him smile there, my eyes locked on him, and finally drew myself up. With steps that seemed to resound i made my way to the corner table in the back of the cafe, and his pale blue eyes left the book and rose to meet me.8

/Konichiwa.9

Konichiwa, omaesan./10