I seat myself by the window, where the sun is casting warm rays through the panes. As I was sneaking glances in between my sips, I found the perfect candidate, the next victim for my writing scheme. I dug quickly into my gray purse to withdraw the journal, but to my misfortune, he fled with the winds; but I can write of him from memory.
He sat outside the coffee shop accompanied by what seems to be a cappuccino, given his age. He wore a cap: maroon, navy, and beige in color, and it read: A King Stays A King. He held his mobile phone under the table, his back arched, as if secluding himself from the group of loud ladies sitting nearby. A cigarette was muffled between his fingertips, and his face was barely visible, mysteriously hidden under that cap.
I’ve convinced myself that he must be in the final laps of his 20s, if not, early laps of 30s. I will search for him next Tuesday in the same spot I found him; I need to see him again to continue this unfinished draft.
But then I worry that I’ll not be able to know it’s him due to time and my forgetfulness. What if he wore a different cap? I’ll remember him. I’ll remember him from his bulged veins.
Tuesday. January 23, 2018. 11:38AM
A part of me thinks that he must be a Libra. I don’t know which part of him pulled me to continue gazing askance without a shame, but I loved studying him to what has felt like hours but in reality they were only a few minutes. Something about his beautifully-aged facial features appeared so comely in my eyes. There was this unspoken mystery that I was suddenly dying to decipher.
It seems to me that both him and I winded up here due to the same quarter-life crisis that spearheads us into lounging in cafes alone. I’ve convinced myself that we both held our addictions cupped in our palms, he, his cigarette, and I, my novel.
Were I to shed my skin bare, I’d admit that I’ve always held this captivation toward men of Mirdif. Every stolen glance and skip of a heartbeat took place in that thoroughfare that I’ve been swearing by since 2013. Every love at first blush occurred there, and I took what I knew so little of and wrote tirelessly until I became so mad in the head. So help me God with this one.
Tuesday. January 23, 2018. 4:49PM.
Do I keep this muse to myself? How will I find the words to describe someone I’d forgotten the shape of by now? But Gosh, I cannot stop thinking about him. Should I name him? Sigh, people-watching is perilous for a writer.
Wednesday. January 24, 2018. 6:40PM
So perhaps excitement dragged my feet here again, or perhaps I am officially the habitue of this coffee place?
I promise you that it was my pen that was frantic for another scan. I promise you that the sun was itching to peck your skin sun-kissed. I promise you that the ashtray was missing your cigar debris too. But I? I wasn’t looking for you; I promise.
Thursday. January 25, 2018. 11:17AM