Him

Every Sunday morning, there she is, reading the newspaper in the same window seat, notepad and macchiato in front of her.

He likes the way she flips the pages, her long fingers turning them with a brisk, elegant flick. Her bright orange earphones are a striking contrast against her dark hair, piled up in a messy bun, a red pen stuck through the center. Tiny feet, always clad in the most fascinating boots – fuchsia suede, camouflage and spikes, electric blue leather – tap along to the beat. Occasionally she removes the pen and scribbles on her notepad before casually sticking it back in place. He likes how her lovely blue eyes scan the pages with focus, absorbing the words with an intense ferocity. Her face is an open book, and the emotions play out across her delicate features, easily giving away the mood of the article: sad, exciting, upsetting.

When she finishes her paper, she folds it neatly and goes to work on her notepad, sketching. She can go on for hours, pencil dancing across paper, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the graceful rhythm of her hands. He wants to go over, ask her what she thought of the news, what she’s drawing, if she is an artist, if she would like to have coffee with him. But he stays frozen, rooted in the seat diagonal to hers, unable to strike up the courage. So instead he ignores his upcoming manuscript deadlines and writes letters to her on his laptop, hoping to one day read them aloud.

Her

He arrives after she does, but she is never sure exactly when, because by the time she looks up from her paper he is already in the seat diagonal to hers. He often seems lost in thought, his gray eyes gazing out the window as he absentmindedly sips his coffee. Unlike her own creamy macchiato, his is a bitter black.

She wonders if he is a journalist or a reporter from the way his eyes roam the shop, calm and curious as he types on his laptop. She likes how his fingers fly over the keyboard, tapping out a delicate beat, which her feet involuntarily tap along to. There’s also the way his eyes gleam with concentration, a gleam that she has tried many times to capture on her notepad. But despite countless attempts, each sketch is as unfinished as the rest. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to capture the intensity of his gaze, the arch of his eyebrows, or the elegant cheekbones she so admires.

Oh, how she wants to sit in front of him so she can properly sketch his features. Then she can finally capture the curve of his jaw and draw in the dimples of his gentle smile. But he would find it strange if she approached him for that reason. So she just sips her coffee, pencil dancing across paper, hoping that one day she will finally finish the portrait.

Barista

There are these two regulars at the coffee shop. Every Sunday morning, they sit in the same seats and peek at each other, constantly missing the other’s glances. It’s been going on for weeks, and even though it’s obvious that they’re into each other, neither has made a move. It’s infuriating.

So today, on a gray Sunday morning, I walk over and hand him a frothy macchiato, then place the steaming black espresso by her notepad.