(That Thing I Do)

The Girl At Breakfast

It’s a weekday morning just like any other ordinary weekday. I decided I would have a hearty breakfast, at one of my favorite breakfast places. As I approach my usual table to have my usual meal and my usual coffee, there you are sitting across my usual spot, as pretty a girl as one could hope for at eight in the morning. As I watch you feed yourself in solitude with the grace of a woman in no rush, I clumsily take my place at the closest vacant table.

My eyes barely lift off your presence. It feels a shame that I am not taking my place at my usual table, right across you at this table-for-two, though silly as it would be to think of sharing your company as if we were not strangers. My intentions crumble under the weight of reality.

Dejected by my own realizations, I order my usual weekday set with my usual coffee. My breakfast arrives before I’ve stolen enough glances at you. As the warmth of the coffee permeates my body with every sip, I secretly wish the brim of my cup were your lips. I imagine the warmth would be different, but I’ll never know exactly how.

Before even my coffee cools, my breakfast is turned to table scraps, and the fading warmth of the coffee reminds me of yours, a warmth I will never know.

I turn to leave my empty cup and fleeting hope, taking one last glance, and then again. I wonder about impossible things that would have been if I had sat at my usual table. I wonder how you’d make me feel. I wonder if I’ll ever see you again; and if I do, if I’ll even care.

I wonder if the coffee will be the closest I ever get to a warmth in my heart.

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