A Coffee Shop Tale

I bumped into him one day, crashing into his arms as I crossed the corner of my favourite coffee shop. Apologizing as more than half of his coffee dripped and fell, staining his faded green shirt, all I could do was watch as he knelt down, picking up the pieces of the disaster I caused.

“I’m sorry”, I repeated sheepishly, He looked from where he knelt, chuckling, “It’s okay, don’t you worry”. Shooting me a warm smile, two dimples popping out, he walked away and all I could do was stare as his image slowly burned into my brain.

I remember going there the next day, a little earlier than usual, and I saw him there. Sitting at the corner table, he had a book open but his eyes were focused, looking outside the window. My nails pressing into my skin and my breath a little short, I sat a little afar, choosing to watch him from a distance.

We both sat there for more than an hour when he stood up suddenly. Quickly hiding my face behind the previous week’s newspaper, I watched from the corner of my eye, as he sighed, a disappointed look shadowing his face. Flipping his ripped jean jacket over his elbow, he left, leaving the doors swinging behind him. I somehow couldn’t bring it in myself to leave, and instead just went and sat where he sat, trying to inhale the scent of a man I just met.

It wasn’t long before I could memorize every corner of the coffee shop, going there every day, too nervous to talk to him but bold enough to sit from where he couldn’t notice me and stare at this beautiful hazel-eyed man. He used to visit the coffee shop every day, ordering an extra hot cappuccino and taking his reserved seat by the window at sharp 10 in the morning.

After an hour of gazing out, he would sigh disappointedly, a sad look casting over his face as he got up and left, locks of his hair brushing the tiny bell hung by the pale blue doors.

I would sit there, every day, reading a new book or doing my work but my mind was always busy contemplating why he was there. What he was waiting for I didn’t know, but I wanted to be there when the wait was over.

Weeks passed with this same mundane routine and I wanted to know, I needed to know why he was there. It was in the back of my head from the time I woke up till I went to sleep. The thought was nagging me, not letting me do any work without his face taking up my mind. Who was he waiting for?

Is he waiting for a woman? Rage started to seep in, gushing through my bloodstream, I felt mad. I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly but I needed to know. In my mind, he was only mine. 

I convinced myself to calm down. ‘You just met him, you don’t know him, he’s not yours’, I murmured to myself as I saw him hopefully gazing outside, foot tapping in rhythm to the slow tunes played in the background, but oh I so badly wanted him to be. With his golden skin and soft locks of wavy hair, if I could keep him locked up only for me, I would. 

Months passed and I shifted into a new apartment around the corner of where I previously lived, which had the coffee shop exactly in view. Each morning, as I stared outside my balcony, I could see him walk towards the coffee shop, each day eyes filled with hope, and he would leave, a dejected look in his face, wrinkles on his forehead growing. Who was he waiting for? The urgency in me grew as each day passed. We would be a great couple, I thought. We would be perfect. 

It wasn’t until one day, conveniently placing myself on his normal route, I bumped into him again. Crashing into his arms but this time he caught his coffee before it could drop. He gave me the same warm smile, the same old smile that got me hooked, and before I could stop myself, I asked him why he paid a visit to the coffee shop every day, every morning, regretting the question as soon as it came out from my mouth.

He chuckled, either not noticing or maybe choosing not to notice why I knew that little information, “I’m waiting”, he said. With that, he gave me a little smile, and walked away, and I was left staring, again. Waiting, yes, I know, but for whom and I needed to know. 

The coffee shop was a cute little café at the corner of the street. With fairy lights hung gracefully around the white floral curtains, with the warmth of the sunlight falling in, giving a warm cosy appearance and the hot aroma of coffee floating around, it was easily the go-to place of people living within this area. A year had passed since I first bumped into him and as I spent my days hanging around the coffee shop, I got to learn more about this 27-year-old brown haired gentleman who sits by the window, waiting for what he states, will one day walk by.

I needed a plan. A plan to make him notice me, anything to get his attention. A plan to make him mine. My therapist had always told me to take it slow. To stop looking at men and claiming them. It was a slow lesson and I was taking my steps nice and calmly, unlike my last two relationships but now the wait was over. I needed to know who he was waiting for, and I needed him to be mine. Only mine. 

Every day, as he walked in, heads would turn, and as he left, there would be a collective sigh across the café. We all had one question, what was he waiting for or who was he waiting for? Until one day, as he got up, I quickly did too. Slowly following his footsteps, careful not to let myself be seen, I trailed behind him. 

This was my chance, I thought. I followed him through the busy streets, making sure to hide every time he made a stop. As he passed, women used to stare at him, and though I was internally seething with anger piercing through my veins, I tried not to take it out on any of them. Soon we landed in front of a small suburban residence, a tiny house with the windows facing front. Hiding behind the trees opposite the front of his house, I watched, as he fumbled with his keys, slightly tripping as he entered and closed the door behind him. This must be where he lives. 

This house would be good enough for us to live in, I thought, as I stared at the white swing hanging in the small porch in front, but definitely, once we have kids, we would have to shift. 

Taking my binoculars out, I winced as I hit my foot against a dustbin, well, some things in life are worth the pain. As I peeked, focusing onto his window, I sighed as I watched him remove his shirt. Oh my, I would do anything for him to be mine. Anything. 

I quickly walked back home, trying not to let my face be seen by anyone. I needed to calm down. This seemed all too familiar. Memories of me stalking my ex through his bedroom window coursed through my brain, shots of me having a meltdown at the therapist’s office. All this seemed too familiar, and I can’t go through this again.

Months passed in this same way, the same stopping by the café in the morning, following him home, my mind still stuck on why he was waiting there, then going to sleep at night hoping tomorrow is the day I get to know why. 

The old me would have gone neurotic, claiming him and doing anything to make him mine, but no, not the new me. The new me is going to take her time with this one. 

 As I started bumping into him more often, we became friends. Meeting at the coffee shop every day, soon I used to occasionally sit with him at the window, trying not to put my hands over his when he leans in for the coffee.

His eyelashes were long and skin soft. His lips were pink with a hint of a moustache above. His smile used to light up the café, making anyone who met stutter for a few seconds before they could talk properly again. As my affection for him grew, the more I realized, he’ll never be mine.

He was waiting, waiting for someone to give more meaning for his life, waiting for someone that he was so sure of that he spent an hour of his day for months, just waiting. But I wanted to be that person, I wanted to be the one that he needs and wants. The person he would wait for like this. 

Then one day, the 24^th of June, at half past 10, we both were sitting by the window when he walked in. With his curly brown hair, and soft eyes, walking with an elegance of a man in his mid-twenties. 

It wasn’t until the man I’ve been obsessed with raised his head, gazing towards the door with a warmth we’ve never seen before, his eyes telling a story that goes way back, that I found out, exactly who he’s been waiting for.