In ten pieces, please.
My second coffee had already arrived when she sat down beside me at the bar. I had already sensed her presence. She was alone, she was close and my peripheral vision told of great beauty.
I could feel her looking at me, at the book I was reading, as I too was glancing across from the very corner of my eye to see what she was reading. I sat there trying to concentrate as to how I could interject, speak to her, but nothing came.
Her coffee came and I now I could hear her. Her voice smiled along with her lips as she thanked John. A beautiful smile. She looked again as she had her opportunity to do so.
I continued to read, she pushed her book aside—a classic by the brief glimpse I had at the cover—and began to write in her worn Moleskine. She turned the book upside down – was she afraid I might see what it was? It did not matter to me by this stage – she was reading, she was beautiful, she was next to me and I was intoxicated by her.
As she wrote her body was turned towards me, making the writing impossible to read. Not that I would want to have entered her world uninvited anyway. I wanted to be asked there and I willed her to do so.
Her soup came and she ate. Her slender wrists broke bread and she ate her soup, elegantly but hungrily. The chilli that I too had enjoyed in the soup but half an hour before made her nose run. She blew her nose confidently. She looked again.
Through this I sat impassive. She did not know I had been sensing every move. That I had stopped reading long ago and was instead sitting still in the face of nervous energy, practically begging my mind for a solution to enter into conversation. To know her, to understand who this smiling, beautiful woman was.
I finished my book. I left. I returned home to realise that I had not paid for my lunch. On the way home I had lamented my inaction, and now I had to return. This was fate. This was it.
I returned to the busy bakery. She was there, on her phone. Gone to me. I paid. I left. I was defeated.
I could feel her looking at me, at the book I was reading, as I too was glancing across from the very corner of my eye to see what she was reading. I sat there trying to concentrate as to how I could interject, speak to her, but nothing came.
Her coffee came and I now I could hear her. Her voice smiled along with her lips as she thanked John. A beautiful smile. She looked again as she had her opportunity to do so.
I continued to read, she pushed her book aside—a classic by the brief glimpse I had at the cover—and began to write in her worn Moleskine. She turned the book upside down – was she afraid I might see what it was? It did not matter to me by this stage – she was reading, she was beautiful, she was next to me and I was intoxicated by her.
As she wrote her body was turned towards me, making the writing impossible to read. Not that I would want to have entered her world uninvited anyway. I wanted to be asked there and I willed her to do so.
Her soup came and she ate. Her slender wrists broke bread and she ate her soup, elegantly but hungrily. The chilli that I too had enjoyed in the soup but half an hour before made her nose run. She blew her nose confidently. She looked again.
Through this I sat impassive. She did not know I had been sensing every move. That I had stopped reading long ago and was instead sitting still in the face of nervous energy, practically begging my mind for a solution to enter into conversation. To know her, to understand who this smiling, beautiful woman was.
I finished my book. I left. I returned home to realise that I had not paid for my lunch. On the way home I had lamented my inaction, and now I had to return. This was fate. This was it.
I returned to the busy bakery. She was there, on her phone. Gone to me. I paid. I left. I was defeated.
“What are you reading?”Easier than breathing.
“Tolstoy.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“Yeah, I thought it was time I read some of his work. What are you reading?”
“Flights of Love.”
“Good?”
“Brilliant. I would recommend it. Journal or writing the next great Australian novel?”
“Journal. I was writing about the weather, how I was enjoying the new season. Do you write?”
“I do. Although, I’m not as good at bringing my Moleskine along as you are.”
“I forget, too.”
“I’m W.”
“I’m-
Labels: love
posted by W at 7:30 pm
2 Comments:
Came across you at theaustralianindex.com. Great read. The answer is always so simple but so many conversations go unsaid. And was just gonna move on and say nothing, but thought better of it. Cheers.
Artful, I thank you for your comments. I often wonder whether my tales resonate, so to hear I hit a note with you is very satisfying. Makes a nice change to the deathly silence.
Post a Comment
<< Home