It has been exactly eight weeks since she started coming to this cafe. Eight weeks of constant admiration from me. Some might even say obsession, and to some extent, they might be right. Any man with a sane mind and in his right senses would find it hard not to be obsessed with her. So yes, maybe I am obsessed.
In recent days, we have grown close with the stranger lady. Although I fear I might be overstating the state of things, let me clarify. Whatever I mean by 'grown close' simply is, we consciously share smiles, wave at each other, raise mugs and nod to one another. Conversing harmoniously without using any words.
I am in doubt if she is aware of this but, all these little happenings mean a great deal to me. It means she sees me.
She sees me!
As much as it means so much, it is so little compared to what it would feel like if we were acquainted, if we shared more than just waves and smiles and nods. Don't get me wrong, I am quite pleased with the little moments we share, but I yearn for something more, something deeper.
Often, I am relentlessly pursued by a fear that one day, she'll stop coming. A fear that the table she sits at will remain empty, or worse, occupied by someone else who has no inkling of who sat there before. My biggest regret will be not having shared anything meaningful with her, all I'll be left with is fleeting memories in my head. I'd hate that!
I walk into the cafe with great determination to make contact with her, have any sort of meaningful interaction with her. I don't know how I'll achieve this but I must. For the sake of my sanity, I must. I cannot keep on living like this, living in the realm of wishful thinking, it is not a pleasant place to be. I promise you that!
I get to the corner booth table and my clockwork routine follows. My waiter friend brings my order, silently places it on the table and walks away just like always. I bring up the mug to my nose. The scent is magnificent as always, I follow with a sip of the beverage before carrying on with my reading.
Today, I am tackling Franz Kafka, a very troubled man, a man in great agony. I feel his agony through his writing, and this makes me wonder how a man in so much pain can write so beautifully. I wish I met the man.
With the book in one hand, I pick up the mug for another sip, and before I rest it down on the coaster, I see her, walking towards her table, basking in the glory of her pristine beauty. Every time I look at her I'm in complete awe.
Her favorite table sits empty, and to my shock, she walks past it, straight towards my table with a grin playing at her lips. This makes me uneasy. The closer she got, the more edgy I get, I can feel my hands slightly trembling and I fear that if I had not placed the mug down, I would have dropped it. My palms become sweaty and my heart pounds so hard against my chest I fear it will break free. I almost forget to breathe as she gets nearer and finally stands next to the table and looks down into my eyes with a subtle warmth on her face.
"Bonsoir monsieur, puis-je avoir ce siège?" She asks in a very friendly voice.
I almost do not hear a single thing she says. I am lost in my thoughts, in disbelief that she is standing right next to me, looking at me, looking into my eyes.
It takes me more than a few seconds to comprehend what she had said, I am aware that she has requested to have the seat on the other side of the booth. But I fail to find my tongue, and the embarrassment hits me after a few seconds. I manage to give her a nod and she proceeds to sit directly in front of me, her smile still very much present.
I had imagined countless versions of this moment, the moments we would have our first significant interaction. Everything was well calculated in my head, I had the words ready, the right smile that wouldn't come off as trying too much, something composed. But in that moment, I sat there blank, all my strategies reduced to an embarrassing silence.
In all my rehearsed versions, I was calm, composed, and in control. I said all the right things, carried the conversation beautifully, said something that made her chuckle, something that charmed her. But here, with her sitting in front of me, everything dissolved into nothingness, leaving me with sweaty palms and a pounding heart.
"Merci," she replies
She sets her bag next to her and looks at me, her eyes are kind, warm and inviting.
"J'espère que," she pauses and thinks for a while. "J'espère que ça ne te dérange pas."
I can tell French is not her first language, she struggles with it and before I can respond, she speaks again.
"Pardonnez-moi monsieur, mon français n'est pas très bon."
I can see the genuine frustration in her face. "Et ton anglais?" I ask, my voice steadier now.
"C'est très bien," she says looking at me quizzically. "You speak English?"
"Yes, I do."
Relief washes over her and a smile forms at her lips, a genuine, vulnerable smile.
Before either of us says another word, my waiter friend brings her order to my table. By now, I am positive he knows her usual order by heart. He whispers a greeting to her which she responds to as the young man sets the beverage in front of her.
"I hope you don't mind. I thought perhaps it was time we stopped waving at each other from across the room."
My chest tightens, and I am not sure if it is because she noticed all that or because I have never met a woman with such confidence to take the lead in that manner.
I hold her gaze for a couple of seconds, and hope that my face doesn't reflect whatever I am feeling inside. There is tug-of-war between surprise and relief going on. My world has been turned upside down. I hadn't realized how much power she held over me, I didn't know one statement from her was enough to trigger all these emotions.
"I don't mind at all," I manage finally.
She laughs ever so lightly, a very pleasant laugh, and her eyes soften and her face seems more relaxed.
I am in great disbelief that the beautiful stranger lady is here. Right in front of me, talking to me. Seeing her this close, I can't help but notice and appreciate how breathtaking she is. I do a good job in concealing my awe, but I fear she can feel it radiating from me.