Coffeehouse

I search the coffeehouse with hopes of finding a home for the next two hours. The room is filled with couples, study groups, men in suits, and then there's small little me. Each hesitant step takes me to a corner table where I am finally able to place my black binder. Oh Paul Krugman, how you puzzle me with your graphs and equations. Don't even get me started with external economies of scale. While I stare at my notes, my mind drifts away, and I am reminded of the time you walked through those doors one summer day.

You were staring intensely into space, the plate in your hand tilting downwards. The muffin rolled off and that's when you snapped back to reality. Your eyes reflected a feeling of genuine sadness. But you saw me across the room, walked over, and smiled. That's when I knew.

That very day I started this blog post. How you fidgeted with your hands, the meaning of the buttons on your backpack, our multiple awkward eye contacts... when you walked out through those door, you left with a part of my heart.

Now, the leaves have changed colors and my faux leather boots are in season. The cold draft pushes me to order an apple cider instead of my regular berry smoothie, and more notably, it makes me want your arms around me. A few months ago, I enjoyed the breeze that passed by as people walked in and out those doors. Today not so much. I wrap up in my red plaid scarf despite being inside, and I glare every time someone I couldn't care for walks in. Come in through those doors again, so I can lock the doors. No more cold drafts and no more Economics. We can pick up where we left off. Wouldn't it be a shame if our paths did not cross once more?