Coffee and Cigarettes
Cappuccino aromas and the heat of a brown paper cup against her palm; there's an indie kid in the corner tapping away at a laptop; an older man lounging on a couch in the corner with a Faulkner novel. So quiet, so absorbed in their own little worlds, and she pretends to take interest in this as the boy across from her clutches his coffee, waiting for it to cool, because he hates drinking really hot things and that's something they have in common.
"So..." he says softly, and she looks at him then, wondering if he could even be half as secretly nervous as she was for whatever reason. He's got one hand on the table as he runs the other through his hair. Leans back, picks up his cup, takes a tentative sip. "Your day was good?"
"Yeah." Biting back a smile. "It was great." And there's so much she wants to add, like that she likes his shirt today and his eyes are nice and she wishes he wouldn't spend half his Friday nights drunk but it doesn't even matter, because she still gets butterflies every time she hears his name or watches him smile. He's got a winning smile. Anyone could testify to that.
"Awesome," he says, and he grins lopsidedly at her. From across the room, the Faulkner man turns a page with a sigh, and the indie kid keeps tapping. "What'd you get this time?"
"White chocolate mocha...it's good."
"Yeah?" There's background music that she didn't notice before, something acoustic that she oddly doesn't recognize, but it's in G and she appreciates that.
"Yeah, really good actually." Pause. "Mason?"
He raises an eyebrow. The music plays on and there's a piano now. A machine behind them hums. And there's so much she could say to him, so much she wants to add, like that she can't stop thinking about him and she likes the way he laughs and that he's a gentleman since he buys her coffee and opens doors, but her tongues too big now and maybe it's too soon. So all she can do is blush and stutter -
"I like our coffee dates." And that earns another smile.
"Me too." He reaches across the table, and squeezes her hand.
"So..." he says softly, and she looks at him then, wondering if he could even be half as secretly nervous as she was for whatever reason. He's got one hand on the table as he runs the other through his hair. Leans back, picks up his cup, takes a tentative sip. "Your day was good?"
"Yeah." Biting back a smile. "It was great." And there's so much she wants to add, like that she likes his shirt today and his eyes are nice and she wishes he wouldn't spend half his Friday nights drunk but it doesn't even matter, because she still gets butterflies every time she hears his name or watches him smile. He's got a winning smile. Anyone could testify to that.
"Awesome," he says, and he grins lopsidedly at her. From across the room, the Faulkner man turns a page with a sigh, and the indie kid keeps tapping. "What'd you get this time?"
"White chocolate mocha...it's good."
"Yeah?" There's background music that she didn't notice before, something acoustic that she oddly doesn't recognize, but it's in G and she appreciates that.
"Yeah, really good actually." Pause. "Mason?"
He raises an eyebrow. The music plays on and there's a piano now. A machine behind them hums. And there's so much she could say to him, so much she wants to add, like that she can't stop thinking about him and she likes the way he laughs and that he's a gentleman since he buys her coffee and opens doors, but her tongues too big now and maybe it's too soon. So all she can do is blush and stutter -
"I like our coffee dates." And that earns another smile.
"Me too." He reaches across the table, and squeezes her hand.