HER P.O.V
I had no intention of walking to the stranger man's booth and sitting with him. For all the weeks that I have visited this cafe, I have always been content with watching him, exchanging small waves, and sharing those fleeting moments from the safety of my table. But something was lacking, there was this nagging feeling of incompleteness, and as I walked into the cafe, seeing him looking at me, I felt a sudden sense of completeness. If only his eyes, his gaze was enough to trigger that feeling of completeness, what would it feel like to share a table and a conversation? That thought alone was enough to lead me past my table and towards his.
He watches me walk and I look at him, and soon as I pass my table, I see an expression on his face. A sudden tension, an uneasiness. I will be lying if I say that it surprised me, for I have watched him for months, I wouldn't be too far off if I say I know him, or at least his body language. I can always tell when he is worried, stressed, shocked, on edge, anxious and uneasy. I see it in his eyes, in the slight shaking of his hands, the little unconscious fidgeting with his fingers, so I can't be too off when I say he was uneasy as I walked towards him.
At his table, he looks up at me with such vulnerability that moves something in me. He looks at me with such kind and gentle eyes that they almost disorient me, but I keep my composure.
I am a foreign woman in a foreign country. I have tried to learn the language of the land but I still struggle with its fluency. As I walked to his table, the fear of him not understanding me slowly crept in, and I almost regretted walking past my table. I would hate myself if our first interaction was a battle of trying to find a language we are both conversant with.
Bless the heavens he speaks English.
I sit, directly in front of him and soon after, the waiter brings me my usual order.
"I hope you don't mind. I thought perhaps it was time we stopped waving at each other from across the room."
He looks at me for a while before giving his reply, and again, I can't help but notice how kind and warm his eyes are.
"I don't mind at all," he speaks finally.
His voice isn't as heavy and coarse as I had imagined. It is heavy, but in a gentle way, the kind that calms you down, soothes you, a voice you can fall asleep to.
I watch him, deliberately, and he does too. His eyes are really captivating, and I am not sure if it is because he has good looking eyes or the fact that they look at me with so much adoration. I have never seen a man, any man, look at a woman like that.
"You're always here," I say to him, bringing my cup close to my lips.
"Hmm," he grunts and looks around, as if he has just got here for the very first time. "Yes. I like the quiet here."
I give a slight nod, "So do I."
For a while, neither of us speak. The silence is not uncomfortable, but it is heavy. Heavy with possibility, and I'd like to believe he is aware of this, as aware as I am.
He picks up his book next to the croissant, closes it and before he puts it away, he turns to me. "Do you read?"
He sounds more relaxed, still nervous but way more relaxed. I smile because of this. From the very first day I caught him staring, I could tell I made him uneasy, and I hate myself for that. More so now after I learned that he is a gentle man, there's a sense of innocence around him.
"Not as much as you do," I reply looking at the book in his hand. "You're always reading something."
He smiles and shifts his gaze to the book, and I assume he is amused by that observation.
"Yes, I always am. Something about seeing the world through someone else's lens, and experiencing it as they do is quite satisfying. Books let me live a thousand lives without ever leaving this table."
He paused, traced the edge of the cover as a weary look settled on his face. With an almost silent sigh, he spoke, "And they keep me company," he added quietly. "Less lonely."
The sheer rawness is not the response I expected from him, it left me speechless. And I fear he noticed because as soon as he looked at me, another expression grew on his face, one of concern and regret.
"I apologize, I shouldn't-"
I don't let him finish. "Please don't apologize, you have said nothing wrong," I reassure him fidgeting with my coffee mug.
I feel the weight of his confession, I understand it more than he could ever know. We have all had such moments in our lives, some having it tougher and harder than others. And something tells me he has had it harder than most.
I look up, meet his eyes and hold them for a long while, try to read them for anything. And he lets me. And for the first time, I notice that there is something more than just adoration in them, something deeper, quieter, vulnerable. I can't quite figure out what it is, but it is definitely present, and he wanted me to see it.
I want to reach out for his hands resting on the table, hold them between mine and tell him I see it, and maybe even understand it. I think better of it and keep my hands to myself.
He takes a sip of whatever beverage he is having then proceeds to clear his throat then looks at me.
"Forgive me if I am wrong, but you are not from here, are you?"
A faint smile escapes my lips as I shake my head to confirm his assertion. "No, I am merely a visitor in this country."
I proceed to tell him where I am from, a little about the place, tell him about the contrast with this rainy city. He asks me why I moved to France, and I explain it all to him.
He listens keenly, as if each word carries weight, as if he wants to picture it all. He is a good listener.
By the time we end the evening, I find myself surprised by how comfortable I feel. I never imagined I would find this level of ease with stranger, and something in his eyes tells me he feels it too.