It just takes a smile to forgo (original work)
It surely would seem like a normal date set for an onlooker by the way we looked sitting at that corner café on a lukewarm October afternoon, with the streets and whereabouts covered by brown, orange and dark-yellow colored leaves that peeled out of the sad, rugged and forgotten oak trees like ballet dancers gracefully spinned according to the rhythm, which was in that case the soft humming breeze.
The entire atmosphere around us took a strangely static, almost sepia color in my eyes as if a photograph from decades ago. The tablecloth had the same plaid pattern, the cutlery was set in the same perfect order and, as expected, the waitress, although very different from the one that always used to refuse our tips, had her hair tied in that specific way that turned that coffee shop unique. Some shiny skyscrapers to my left weren’t familiar but the traditional and cozy looking butcher shop across the street hadn’t changed at all just like the silly, dazed-looking couples around us, trapped to their seats by the very same feeling that made us both so different from them. Was that all what aging was about?
Even if the espresso cup I had between my hands was hot, my insides were a strange mash of ice with a pinch of regret as I stared at him, mapping out the aging lines and trying to guess the places he had been at, what made him what he was right there, in front of me. I couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or not; he had his lips hidden behind his cup of an usual machiatto and I didn’t really want to get there, not when I couldn’t even stare clearly at his eyes without scuffing my honest-to-God old-fashioned shoes against the crude concrete like children foreseeing a scowl from their mothers, or boyfriends awaiting for their beloved ones to blink goodbye.
I had a brief idea of why he chose that very worn out table we were at. It probably was an irony, as if he wanted a closure at the same place my eyes firstly fooled me into the depths of his. Despite the situation at hand, I couldn’t stop the sound of his voice from ringing like bells, feel like home, pulling at the wrong strings, twisting my insides like they said butterflies fluttered inside one’s stomach. My butterflies were restless indeed, but now they were old; somehow I was sure I now stared at him with different eyes. Aside his smothering aura reaching over the table with its inviting arms to me, his charming lies and ever-so-fascinating phony smile, I clearly knew he was daring me into falling for him yet again so he could use it as his last blow to my ego. I wasn’t buying any of that; the smell of my espresso somewhat repelled his sweet, machiatto-flavored speech instead of blending with it just like it had done all those years.
His mouth seemed to sour at the sight of my rag doll smile and resignment tinged his eyes for the smallest part of a second when I pulled my part of the bill out. And as I took my leave, not bothering to claim my heart back, I knew an autumn afternoon would never happen at that café again. As I carried my steps through the leaf-covered streets, I somewhat knew I had hold of his heart too.
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This was a short story we were supposed to write describing a certain happening in the past, real or not.