As I wandered into the café, the scent of freshly baked pastries wafted about the tiny shop. The dark oak chairs looked untouched since the last time I visited. The only person there, who sat on the far side of the shop, was an old lady with a shock of white hair, framing her pink, wrinkled face. She sipped at her cream coloured mug, her hand quivering as she set the mug back onto the circular table.
"Usual please," I called, whilst Ute sauntered over to me. Ute is the café owner's daughter. I'm a regular customer, so we know each other well. She's probably one of my best friends.
"Liesel!" she greeted me with a smile.
"How are you?"
"Gut, danke schön. How is Karsten?" I asked. Karsten is Ute's fiancé.
"He's feeling ill. I'm sure it's just flu but he can't go to work," she replied, her smile fading as her eyes fell to the ground. Before I could sympathise, Ute chimed in—
"Oh, don't worry yourself. Anyway... do you have...anyone..."A smile crept onto her face as she said it.
"No." I replied coldly, as the image of that little boy flashed in the back of my mind.
"Well, one day, I can assure you." she whispered with a sparkle in her eye. "Here." She handed me the tray with my "usuals" on it.
"Danke schön!" I chorused whilst walking over to a seat.
I love her really, we've known each other for about a year. I sat down onto the leather seated chair at the back of the café. It was the window seat in the corner, neighboring only panel of glass in the shop. To feel the warmth of the sun on my face, to watch the passers by now back to the regularities of everyday life; it gave me tranquility and peace.
I wondered about love. Such a peculiar emotion that you feel towards certain people. And people you are not related to. Will I ever get married? Have children? I've always wanted children, grandchildren, dancing around my grey self and the man who was my husband. His hand intertwined into mine and looked at me as if I were his dream. In the sunlight lies a perfect life of happiness, love, joy and freedom. But there will always be the clouds to hide it or the rain to wash it away. I'm afraid life isn't perfect, nor will it ever be. The fact I fantasise over life is just ridiculous; my face must be a picture. Elbows lent on the table and hands encasing my face of boredom and wonder.
Reaching into my sactual, I grabbed my notebook and fountain pen. I want to write another story: live life on sheets of paper. Its easier that living in this reality. Perhaps I'll write about kings and queens in a far off land. Or what our future holds and it's many wonders and terrors. No. It has to be something unique. Something no one has ever read before. Otherwise I'm sure that this one will share the same fate as those before it.
All of a sudden, the silver bell chimed at the top of the white washed, wooden door. A man, about six foot, strolled into the café.
I felt eyes on me...
