In the Coffee Garden

The air was crisp with a cold that made you pull your scarf and hat tighter around your neck and ears. White fluffy snow started falling, dancing, and swirling around making it feel like a snow globe scene. Walking through the town’s streets, on a night like this, made a heart like mine glow with the possibility of magic in the air. Unrealistic, I know, but I needed some inspiration. Something to spark my writing life or maybe just my life. 

The street and building lights illuminated the streets as people bustled about trying to avoid being out in the cold for too long. I felt the warmth emanating from the shops, restaurants, bakery, and the little coffee shop, Coffee Garden.

I stop in front of Coffee Garden and peer through the large window that basically shows the whole shop. The light was warm and I saw many types of people taking refuge from the cold inside. Most were talking or doing work on computers, but my eyes rested on a man sitting right next to the window reading. He looked to be in his early twenties, like me, but I can only guess because his head was bent low and I couldn’t really tell. He was completely and deeply submerged into his book that he didn’t notice when the waiter set a mug and muffin down on the table next to him. He was biting his fingernails and his brows were furrowed together. He sat sideway in his chair, scrunched up like a crumpled piece of paper with his feet propped up on the windowsill, tapping on the glass every now and again. What was he reading that made him so submerged that nothing else seemed to matter to him?

Before I could stop myself, I was walking through the door. The warmth of the inside hits my face like a warm embrace. I made my way over to where the captivating man was sitting and sat myself in the vacant wooden chair in front of him. He didn’t seem to notice me like the food and drink sitting untouched on the table. He rigorously flipped the page and continued reading. I cleared my throat and tried to catch a glimpse of the cover. I caught enough to know it’s not english, but before I could make out the language, I felt eyes on me. I looked up to find his bright blue eyes staring at me. I gulp. 

“Hello,” I said, feeling awkward. I really hadn’t thought this through. 

“Hello,” he said, with a French accent. 

Before I could stop myself I blurted...

“I’m so sorry to bother you. I saw you in the window. You were so deeply into your book that I just had to see what you were reading. What are you reading? I’m a writer you see and I’ve hit a bit of a writer’ s block. So I’ve been looking for inspiration to help me. I can’t seem to write anything that catches people’s attention.”

His blue eyes blinked at me and his head was slightly tilted. He honestly looked shocked. He probably thinks I’m insane. His book was held in mid-air, now forgotten.

I gulp again, realizing I have made a mistake. I never do this. Never. Talking first to people has never been something I did or have ever done. 

I swiftly get up.

“I am so sorry,” I bladdered and sped for the door. What just happened? Where did that come from? That was not me at all. This is going to be a three a.m. thought that will prevent me from ever sleeping again. 

“Wait! Wait!” I hear a voice call from behind me. I turn to see the man from Coffee Garden running toward me. Why does this remind me of a scene from a bad romance movie? 

He stops in front of me, slightly out of breath. 

“Where are you going,” he asked panting, his eyebrows furrowed, “You asked a question and then left without an answer. That is very strange.” 

“I disturbed you and that was so rude of me. I am so sorry,” I swallowed. Our breath swirling around us in the chill of the night. He smiled at me. A smile that reached his eyes and made them sparkle. 

“You did not disturb me. You surprised me,” he spoke with kindness. I couldn’t help but smile back and blush a little. 

“You were asking about my book,” he stated, eyes never leaving mine, he held out his book, “Le Royaume or The Kingdom.” He translated. 

I took the book carefully out of his hands, cold fingers brushing against each other. Snow was swirling around landing lightly on the book. I flipped through the pages. It was a well loved book. All the pages were yellow and aging with the binding crinkling on the spine.

Suddenly I feel it. A sudden idea clanging against my brain, like a cathedral bell. It screams you can’t ignore me throughout my head.  

“It is one of my favorite books. It is a love triangle between a prince, pirate, and princess. It teaches the importance of loving someone and being loved in return. It gives hope... well hope to a heart like mine,” he shrugged.

As he speaks, the story in my head gets louder and louder. Clearer and clearer. 

“Would you like to borrow it,” he asked, his accent ever present.  

“I would love to, but I can’t read French,” I voiced sheepishly. 

“Not to worry, I will read and translate for you,” he stated, “We can head back inside.” He gestured toward the Coffee Garden. 

It must have been the way he turned and looked at me while gesturing toward the Coffee Garden. His eyes were sparkling in the light of the street and a boyish grin painted on his face. I can see it. He’s there, my main character shining before me.

“But I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name,” I laughed.

He matched my laugh. His teeth sparkled like an old good looking movie star. My imagination pictured a crown tilting forward in his dark brown hair. This is it. 

“My name is Tomlyn,” he shared slowly inching his way back to the coffee shop door, egging me to follow. 

Well Mr. Tomlyn, I think I may have found my next story.