Not Your Typical Romance

Part 1

I sat there. I sat there as the barista took a shot of espresso and poured it in a mug. This is how I celebrate Fridays--with a cup of coffee, a cheap pocket book, in my favourite coffee shop. It's an old coffee shop. It's one of those coffee shops that don't scream 'I'm a coffee shop!' with the exterior design. In fact, you would think that it is an old abandoned bar, because of all the used wine bottles attached on every corner of the windows. Some people would think it's a sad place, but I like it. I have always been attracted to old things, because they hold something. Something that can never be erased, nor destroyed. They make you feel things, that sometimes is more than what your senses can take. "One mocha with no sugar for Brix!" said Alice. I took the mug from her freezing hands, and said, "Thanks! It looks like someone forgot her gloves." "Well, yeah. I would wear them, but I think the warmth that the coffee brings is more than enough," she said, with a subtle smile. I've been coming to this coffee shop for more than two years now, so everyone pretty much knows me already. I took a sip, and started reading. It's the same feeling over and over again. The comfort, the coziness, and the warmth, despite the grains of snow falling outside. It's almost like I'm in a romantic story. It's the perfect setting, but without the actual romance.

My mocha was already half-done when the door hung open. A girl wearing a beanie with cat ears on it appeared in front of the counter. She looked young, maybe a year or two younger than me. Her eyes landed on mine, and I pretended like I was not looking. Eye contact has always been my weakness. I've always had this thought that people would see my soul through my eyes. I think partly, it's true, because our eyes show more than what we try to show. I glanced at her again, and there she was, just two tables away from me. She had brown almond eyes, and her hair just flew right below her shoulders. It looked like she was writing something. She hit the keys on her laptop like her life depended on it. I thought maybe she was writing a story. Alice called her, and gave her the green tea latte that she ordered. Micah, such a cool name. For some reason, I hoped she would come over to my table and say hi. For some reason, I thought my mundane routine would have a twist that day.

I was just about to get off my seat and approach her, when a guy came in and sat beside her, smiling. There was a sudden heaviness in my chest. I don't know why, because I should have been used to the loneliness by now. I should've felt alright, because this was my normal, just me, the mocha, the book, the silence. I liked being alone. But maybe, maybe I felt that hope. That hope that F. Scott Fitzgerald talked about. The hope that makes the most hopeless people hopeful. The hope that someway, somehow, someone will fix us. But for me, the romance is quite different. It's different, because how will a girl fix me, if I'm a girl myself?