21 July 2006

thoughts, from the girl in the cafe

He reminds me of a character Johnny Depp would play: tattoos, longish dark hair, that hat, but mostly the aura of rugged, raw sexuality that surround him. He orders a coffee, black, and sits in a corner to drink it at his leisure. "My bus leaves at midnight," he remarks to me in passing, but volunteers no information as to where he has come from or is going, and I do not think to ask until it is too late.

In my head, it plays out as it would if this were an independent film, the type I would make had I the means or the inspiration. He asks me if I am free tonight, and of course I am. Sitting in the cafe, we swap our life stories, bare our souls to one another. For the three hours between my closing the shop and his leaving town, we belong to each other.

"I bet you leave a broken heart behind in every city," I say to my wandering lover, laughingly, but knowing that it's true, and he does not deny it.
"Two, if you count my own," and his tone is frank but his smile is sad; he kisses the spot where my collarbone melts into my shoulder.
When he leaves, I do not weep, but open my arms to the stars, and laugh, and am more alive than I ever have been until this moment. I never see him again, nor do I forget him.

My life is not a movie. He asks for one refill of his coffee, then leaves with only a "thank you" thrown my way. Even if he had asked, I have plans for tonight, and anyway I am not the kind of girl I would be in a film. Still, having him in the shop makes me feel a little more alive, nonetheless.

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23 November, 2006  
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