Missed Connections Vancouver: I Saw You
I saw you. A question. A promise. A few words in a newspaper.
I saw you. When I peeked in your bedroom window. Lurking behind you on the street. When you sat next to me at the coffee shop.
You smelled like. Unisex cologne. Axe body spray. Saturdays and sunshine.
You leaned over and asked. Got any spare change? Ever had sex with a Kennedy? Anyone sitting here?
I pretended I didn't speak English. I was casual, I was calm, I was a female James Dean and pushed out the chair with my foot gesturing for you to have a seat. I choked on my coffee and sputtered all yours.
You smiled. I smiled. You smiled. That really happened.
You put your of books down on the table and asked if I would keep an eye on them while you held up a bank. Called your mom. Got yourself a coffee and did I need anything?
I blinked. Twice. Like a hospital patient. Like a four year old. Like the cat had my tongue.
While you were gone I glanced at your books. And wrote my name in the table of contents, and then drew a heart around it. To check if you were overdue. Because I wanted to see what you were into.
Apparently you're really into Astrophysics. Botany. Eighteenth Century Whore Biographies. Didn't really matter, it was just nice to know you're into something. I like a man with passion.
On your way back to the table, coffee and two cookies in hand, you caught me checking out your books and said we're not all born Hemmingways. Adorable shrug
That's what your books were about. Writing. How to write poetry for the senseless. How to write a mystery without a crime. How to woo writers (in ten steps or less).
And I swooned to your waves, knocking my boat about at sea. And I drowned in the sheer bliss of it all. And I mumbled mmhmm like you had just said, nice day, ain't it.
I brought you a cookie you said, handing it over to me. I said Trick or treat? I said I'm on a diet. I said thank you, that's so sweet and I'm pretty sure some sweat trickled down my back.
I thought that was going to be it. You would read and I would write. You would write and I would read. We would be writers in proximity. To greatness. To each other. To a couple of coffee shop cookies.
Only, then you looked at me. Sighed hard like you'd just heard about how a man once walked on the moon. Shook your head a bit, smiled and said You look like heaven, if I wasn't an atheist. You look like trouble on a quiet night, in the summer, when our legs are itching for an adventure. Sigh. Jesus, you're beautiful.
And then a car crashed through the window. And then someone pulled the fire alarm. And then I had to go meet a friend.
I got up to leave, thanked you again for the cookie, and held my breath. You asked for my phone number. You said you couldn't live another moment without me in your life. You said have a nice day.
And that was that, the moment passed. And it makes you wonder about all those passing moments. The very few that happen in a day. The astronomical amount that happen in a lifetime. The opportunities you miss because you were shy, I was awkward and time wasn't interested in slowing down for us.
I saw you. In a dream. In the corner of my eye. When you sat next to me at the coffee shop.