Secrets Between Us.

- Chapter 1 -

I watch as the steam rises from my mug and swirls in delicate patters. That's when I hear the bell jingle once more. I hate that thing, but I also love it in a way. Talk about being caught in a state of conflict. It's a love-hate relationship.

Cliché, I know.

It alerts me when another fine specimen walks through the door. It alerts me when there is another wreck looking for a reason to escape the confines of their own walls.

But then again – there you are.

Your chestnut curls had been thrown by the wind, and your cheeks were an ever-luscious shade of pink. I could devour them whole, take you into my arms and promise to make you feel things you have never experienced before. Although, there was one thing that stopped me from sweeping you off your stocking-covered feet.

You do not know me. You don't know that I exist. You haven't even seen me nor have you paid me any attention.

I think you'd like me. If you took the time to get to know me, I think we could be friends. I think we could even be more than that someday. But you have to notice me and so far you haven't which is something we really do have to work on.

I watch with piqued curiosity as you unravel the scarf from your neck and wave at the barista. The red dress you wore folds in soft waves as you move towards him. It compliments your boulder-like shoulders and shows off the toning of those wonderful thighs from beneath the hosiery.

Squats have been kind to you. You look after yourself.

That would make anyone insane with lust.

The overhead industrial lights plays on the highlights of your hair, and the shadows are accentuated by the darkness the light couldn't reach.

I notice these things, you know.

To me, this is all in slow-motion. You look like a runway model – slender, tall and radiating confidence. You light up the room with your smile and all of a sudden, it was just me and you. No one else existed on this find planet of ours.

I do not have eyes for anyone else but you. You are the epitome of grace and beauty.

You smile and ask the lad behind the counter how his day was going. You even batter your eyelids that were tastefully accented with a quick score of mascara.

This is why I like you. You care about how you look; how others perceive you.

The barista responds in kind, giving you a few flirty smiles and a wink of his own. I don't blame him – you really are a sight for sore eyes. But it cut me like a knife when I saw him reach for the marker and draw a quick heart on the white travel-lid. You lean in closer to the counter and your lips stretch into an award-winning smile. A tinge of pink hints at your cheeks and your chest rises and falls as you giggle.

Hang on. Something isn't right with this picture.

Did you fuck him?

I am disappointed, I truly am. This isn't the way things are supposed to be. This is not how I imagined our lives to begin together.

I grip the handle of the mug in my fingers but my hands tremor as I try to lift the liquid gold to my lips. The coffee suddenly became undrinkable – why would I want to slowly sip on something made by a bed buddy that wasn't me?

How many more of these people are there?

Damn it. You screwed things up before we even got things started.

For the record, he is nothing compared to you.

You.

You look like someone who belongs on the high streets of Milan, an ambassador for the glitz and glamour of the products that sold for the price of a luxury car.

Him?

His dirty pony-tail. His washed-out pallor. His hung-over, glassed eyes. He belonged in the gutter with a bottle obscured by a brown-paper bag. That's how his types usually end up anyway.

You could do better than this.

You could have me instead.

I would cook for you. I would clean for you. I would give you everything you ever wanted.

If you had me, you would not have to resort to one-night blowjobs with some deadbeat who only sees so far as his next sex-induced euphoria. He probably has you and others piled away like a stack of cards in a rolodex, ready to draw whenever he so desired.

Have some respect for yourself.

I have been sitting here for a year.

You are not his only, and you are not the only one who he draws fake, little hearts for. Take off your rose-tinted glasses and this would become so obvious to you that you would never know how you saw past it.

But that is okay.

I am here for you. I can make you see the light.

It is never too late.

I watch as you take the befouled travel mug into your grasp and wrap the scarf back around your neck with your free hand. You give the pony-tailed schmuck a parting wave and slip through the door with an obligatory jingle of the bell.

Outside, you disappear into the sea of bodies that move along the footpath like a lazy current. You become anonymous to the world, buried amongst uninteresting, plain folk who make the same commute every day. Even though others may walk straight by you without another look, I know you – something special, a diamond of sorts – are amongst them.

I rise from the chair and bundle myself up into my coat and scarf. I grab my laptop satchel and fling the strap across my body. Staring at the three-quarters of remaining coffee, I begin to pity the waste. In a fluid movement, I swallow the dregs hastily.

It would be a long day and the caffeine hit would not go astray.

Oh. And there is one final thing before we part for the final time today, and our thoughts become just distant memories as they become compounded by others.

I will see you at the same time tomorrow.

Try not to be late.