The Cafe

We met by the river. Wrought-iron table settings designed to punish anyone in a short dress.

He was already there. Sunlight catching on his shoulders. In front of him: a ridiculous iced coffee drowning in whipped cream. He hadn't waited for me to order.

Rude.

I walked back inside to order. Long black, one sugar.

Autopilot kicked in. I could do this. Build rapport. Carry the conversation. Keep it moving. He was a bit awkward. I was working harder than I wanted to. God, where is my coffee? I'm burning through my best material here.

I watched him for a moment, noticed the way the sunlight fell through his lashes, made shadows on his warm brown eyes. Caught on a dark spot on his right eye. What is that? I forgot what I was saying.

And then — he laughed.

Not polite. Genuine. Easy. Everything I hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.

It cut straight through whatever I'd been thinking. And I experienced this overwhelming sense of recognition. Like remembering something I'd forgotten I was allowed to feel.

And that was it. His laugh.

He didn't check his phone once. Didn't glance at the time. Just sat there in that particular way of people who have decided the present moment is the only one worth being in — unhurried, unaccountable, free in a way I hadn't felt in years and had quietly stopped believing was available to me.

There was something underneath it too. A bruise, faint but unmistakable. The particular weariness of someone who has spent too long being misread.

I recognised it because I'd felt it myself.

And in that recognition, something shifted.

I could see him, I thought. I actually see him.

That thought — quiet, certain, completely wrong about what it would cost me — was the most dangerous one I'd had in years.

I could see he didn't exactly have his life together, sure. But I was intrigued by the fact that he simply didn't seem to care.

Everything about him said don't trust this.

And everything in me answered: too late.

What I didn't tell him — what I hadn't told anyone — was how long it had been since I'd felt anything I wasn't afraid of.