Coffee Shop (A Valentine's Day Story)

COFFEEE SHOP

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There was a young man with a crutch staring at me from across the coffee shop today.  Although we'd never met or spoken, I had the terrible feeling we were on a date.

            The day started out as a perfectly normal day.  It was a crisp, sunny morning, just warm enough to be comfortable.  I woke up early, pulled a dress from my closet (black, with small white polka dots), and shrugged a jacket on before stepping out into the day.  I had an hour before work started, and it was time for my weekly cup of coffee.

            The shop was one I knew well: a quaint, casual, privately owned establishment that played local artists and hosted monthly poetry readings, and the occasional talent show.

            The barista, doing her best with the outdated equipment, handed me my caramel macchiato with an apologetic smile, and I tipped her extra.  Then, with golden sunlight filtering through the windows, I took a seat on the ground floor and enjoyed the view. 

            The view which included, incidentally, the young man in question. 

            He sat alone at a small table, sipping a mug of what I presumed was black coffee.  He had a crutch with him- not the kind that goes under your arm, but the kind that wraps around your forearm.

            Dark blond hair of medium length framed an angular face which, though not what you'd call chiseled, left a definite impression of high cheekbones and a strong, clean-shaven jaw.  Freckles dotted his cheeks and a long straight nose.  His chin was tapered and smooth- no hint of a dimple.

            His clothing was not particularly remarkable (a dull red, fitted V-neck T-shirt, dark blue jeans, and shoes I thought might be Sketchers), though it did give me the impression that he enjoyed looking nice even when casual.  He was tall, I could tell, because his long legs stretched out much farther under the table than mine, and I wasn't short by any means.  

            From where I sat, I couldn't determine the color of his eyes: only that they were locked on mine. At first, I was embarrassed that he had caught me staring, until I realized he must have been staring at me first.  Fighting my rising blush, I smiled the bland smile one does after making accidental-eye-contact with a stranger, and turned to the side, burying myself in my coffee.  But I couldn't resist sneaking another sideways glance at him now and then, and every time, he was either looking at me already, or looked up just in time to catch my own gaze.

            He raised an eyebrow at me, a distinct and lively smile dancing on his lips, as he were laughing at me.  In fact, I was sure he was laughing at me.  And yet, that smile was one of a friend.  Of someone who knew me well, and only laughed because I made some sort of inside joke.

            Swallowing, I averted my eyes and stirred the macchiato.  It was just cool enough to drink, now, which was a relief as it gave me something to do!  Something other than endure the man's gaze--or risk returning it. 

            Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him chuckle softly and take another sip of coffee, thankfully turning so that he faced the window, just parallel to me.  We sat like that for a few minutes, until I was brave enough to hazard another peek above the rim of my cup.

            Though he still faced the window, I knew immediately he could see me peering.  He smiled again, then turned to face me fully before I had a chance to look down. 

            There was no point in denying it now- we were facing each other squarely, eye-to-eye.  I set down my cup and tapped my fingers on the table, and he did the same.  I felt the heat in my cheeks intensify, which was alarming in itself.  It wasn't as if I'd never talked to a guy before!  I'd had a boyfriend or two- which is not as many as most girls my age could boast- but it was a start.  I was certainly beyond the point of blushing and giggling with nerves like a sixth-grader.  Yet still I was seized by this unaccountable rush of self-consciousness.  I couldn't remember being this flustered ever before- not even at my first job, when they set me in front of a temperamental cash register without training and asked me to take the orders of a dozen waiting customers. 

            I licked my lips carefully- conscious of their slightly chapped surface- and blinked at the young man, trying not to let my eyes wander too obviously to the crutch at his side.  I wondered what he needed it for- an old injury, or perhaps a disability he'd been born with... 

            As we sat there, I was filled with the sudden alarming impression that we were on a date of sorts.  We had never met or even spoken before that moment, but we were here, less than twelve feet away from each other, enjoying our coffee and, evidently, each other's company.  Maybe if we were at the same table, he would ask about my family, or my favorite color, or what I liked to do on a typical Friday evening.  I would of course respond with a charming and tactful answer, then ask him about himself.  Did he like music?  What made him laugh?  What were his dreams?

            This peculiar impression was so strong, I found myself too embarrassed to risk looking at him again.  I faced the window instead, and gulped down the rest of my coffee before glancing at my watch.

            I had fifteen minutes to get to work.  Plenty of time, it was only a short distance away.  Still not looking at the staring man, I stood and gathered my things. 

            But when I turned for the door- he was gone.  He and his crutch and his unsettlingly-charming glances were just... gone.

            Startled, I hesitated before going to the door.  For half a second, the secret corner of my heart wished he would appear behind me and talk to me, but the second passed and I knew it wouldn't happen.  I was glad it didn't happen--what would we have said?

            So, tightening my grip on my purse and on reality, I left the shop and fled for work.

            I haven't been back to the coffee shop since then.  It's Saturday again, and I'm due for my weekly treat- but I'm still standing out here on the sidewalk, looking at the door.  There's only forty-five minutes before work this time, and I can already see he's not in there.

            But that clacking sound on the pavement... is that the sound of a crutch?

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