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The Window
The teacup scalded my fingers as I wrapped them around it,
but it was better than the frigid air that hammered on them. I could go inside the café, but it suffocates
me to be inside with all those other people.
You know, the normal ones who know how to be warm and cozy with each
other. I released one hand to pull my
scarf up to my chin and then brought the cup to my nose to let the steam warm
my face.
I admired the font of “Le Mot Juste” sketched across the café
window and glanced inside to scan the booths of patrons. A lonely man, who may or may not be homeless;
the waitress in her candy-striped dress, a blazing red smile painted across her
face; a woman dragging a child off the
table away from the syrup; the lovers in the corner gazing hopeful into each
other’s eyes.
The lovers.
He had his hand atop hers with her pinky intertwined with
his. She caressed his cheek and ran her
thumb across his lips. They kissed and a
smile escaped across her face. Her face was simple and plain, but she was
beautiful.
For a moment I loathed them. And then I pitied them, for surely this
wouldn’t last. Hurt was bound to show
up. Poor things. But as I took a sip of tea, the burn that
assaulted my tongue caused my eyes to well up with tears. And then I found myself crying. Crying of all things!
I quickly wiped the tears from my cheeks. Ridiculous.
I looked away from the window and wrapped my hands back around my cup of
warmth, staring into it to get back to myself.
“I prefer to be alone,” I preached to no one and motioned for Miss Ruby
Red Lips to bring me the check.
She shivered a bit as she walked out the door, but she
smiled (of course, she did) and bent over toward my face.
“A gentleman inside took care of your check,” she said, “and
he asked me to give you this.” She
handed me a napkin with some scribble on it.
She smiled again, and this time, she looked impossibly sweet.
I looked down at the napkin.
It read: “You are too beautiful to be crying. I wish you might come inside sometime.”
Confused, I looked up and gazed through the window. Same people…the waitress, the mother now
grasping pieces of pancake from her son’s fingers, the lovers, and the lonely
man who was putting on his coat.
He turned toward the window, brushed his fingers along the
tip of his hat, and walked out toward the back door.
My cheeks blushed hot against the cold wind.
