He sits across from her at the coffee shop every afternoon. Today he’s dressed in cutoff jean shorts, which make her smile because, well frankly, when did those come back into style? It’s a part of that, “I know it’s a fashion statement best left in the past, but not only am I going to wear it, I’m also going to make it cool, and even a little bit enviable to do so.” His t-shirt is solid, just like every other day. He doesn’t strike her as a pattern kind of guy. He lets other parts of him speak—like his thick-rimmed glasses and mustache. She’s not sure that he can pull either of them off, but she admires his decision to try.
The backwards cap is what gets her, that and the plaid socks. He has them pulled just a tad too high on his lower calf, so that the heels peek out over the top of his sneakers, vintage Nikes of course. She’s so distracted by the rapid shaking of his right leg that she almost misses the small tattoo on his lower left calf. She can’t quite make it out, but she knows she will by the time it gets too cold to wear those silly cutoffs anymore. He has another tattoo—this one on his left arm, not fully visible from underneath his turquoise sleeve, but still easily recognized. A skull. A choice that she imagines he’ll tell her about one day.
He always leaves his bag on the floor, which she hates—didn’t his mother ever warn him about the kinds of creatures crawling around the floor of public spaces? She’s never seen it, but she imagines when he leaves every day, usually after her, he hops on a bike he salvaged from a garage sale or bought off some Craigslist-esque website. He reads a lot, but she does too. In fact, when she’s not working or mindlessly downing coffee at this little café near her apartment, she is trying to work her way through every National Book award winner.
One thing she gets is why he comes to this little coffee shop. It’s quiet, and small, but with room to breathe. It doesn’t try too hard—simple chalkboard menus, not too many options, greys and browns, plain white ceramic mugs and cups. And nice touches: some indie band singing about heartbreak always playing the background, and when she orders a macchiato, the barista pours the cream so as to make a little white heart floating atop her warm pool of caffeine.
If she gets a pastry, she prefers the vanilla almond croissant, although the plain is just as good. It’s the powdered sugar that makes the difference she guesses. One time she bought coffee from here, fresh roasted beans, to bring home and brew in her own kitchen. But she accidentally bought decaf, so there they’ve sat, unopened in her cupboard for all these months. She prefers her coffee in the shop anyway. She sits in a corner table near the back, but she can still hear the hum of cars driving by
The backwards cap is what gets her, that and the plaid socks. He has them pulled just a tad too high on his lower calf, so that the heels peek out over the top of his sneakers, vintage Nikes of course. She’s so distracted by the rapid shaking of his right leg that she almost misses the small tattoo on his lower left calf. She can’t quite make it out, but she knows she will by the time it gets too cold to wear those silly cutoffs anymore. He has another tattoo—this one on his left arm, not fully visible from underneath his turquoise sleeve, but still easily recognized. A skull. A choice that she imagines he’ll tell her about one day.
He always leaves his bag on the floor, which she hates—didn’t his mother ever warn him about the kinds of creatures crawling around the floor of public spaces? She’s never seen it, but she imagines when he leaves every day, usually after her, he hops on a bike he salvaged from a garage sale or bought off some Craigslist-esque website. He reads a lot, but she does too. In fact, when she’s not working or mindlessly downing coffee at this little café near her apartment, she is trying to work her way through every National Book award winner.
One thing she gets is why he comes to this little coffee shop. It’s quiet, and small, but with room to breathe. It doesn’t try too hard—simple chalkboard menus, not too many options, greys and browns, plain white ceramic mugs and cups. And nice touches: some indie band singing about heartbreak always playing the background, and when she orders a macchiato, the barista pours the cream so as to make a little white heart floating atop her warm pool of caffeine.
If she gets a pastry, she prefers the vanilla almond croissant, although the plain is just as good. It’s the powdered sugar that makes the difference she guesses. One time she bought coffee from here, fresh roasted beans, to bring home and brew in her own kitchen. But she accidentally bought decaf, so there they’ve sat, unopened in her cupboard for all these months. She prefers her coffee in the shop anyway. She sits in a corner table near the back, but she can still hear the hum of cars driving by
