A miss without a swing

I’m sitting directly opposite her, line of sight; the café is almost empty. She’s reading Wallpaper, in front of her sits a book about slow cooking. Two for two. I look up, she’s looking at me, our eyes lock for a second. I thought it was an engaging stare on my behalf, her face, though, said stalker. Still, she persisted, a couple more glances snuck here and there, an operation I too was carrying out from my side of the table.

But the café is closing. It’s time to go. I stand, I wait for an in – there are none. My only attempt to speak to her foiled by another damned patron who stood between us. And alas, it was over. Again. Yes, Her.

Walking away, looking through the window, our eyes meet again. The dance of hopelessness, headed absolutely nowhere. Proof of my distinct lack of ability to make these circumstances work confirmed without any doubt.