*
My fingers moved in harmony as I stared through my thin rimmed glasses at the laptop screen. It hadn't even occurred to me that I've spent over an hour in the little French cafe.
It has to be my imagination, I guessed. When I write stories, my mind tends to get lost with what's going on around me, that must include time. I stopped to read over my last, ending chapter and then quickly glanced at the analogue clock in the corner, reading the time: 1:23.
I closed my laptop after saving my now finished story, then looked up in front of me. There he was, again, for the fourth day in a row. The mysterious, handsome man leaning against the cafe's counter, sipping a not-too-warm mocha.
I was a writer of many things; romance, mystery, action, fiction. A talent I've gained is being able to read people easily from their actions and positions. But him, not even a simple detail could make anyone understand his ways. For instance, the first day I saw him. Just his looks inspired me to continue writing my half written piece, giving me courage. So, I thought he was a kind hearted, elegant man with many manners. But then the next day he entered the cafe, he was distraught. His moves were quick, and he was bumping into people left and right. That caught me off guard, for I thought he was elegant. Then, just yesterday he walked in very slowly, all in black. His very expensive, black shoes made a swift sound as he strode from one side of the cafe to the other. It amazed me. As my friend sat in front of me talking away, I could only stare at the beauty beheld in front of my eyes. I usually caught myself smiling, not even bothering to sip the latte of which my friend bought me. I just stared, bewildered by his perfection.
Today was yet again, different. Today, the mysterious man looked, well, mysterious. For once, his actions were not what was mysterious, but it was his looks and behavior.
I leaned back in the wooden chair, crossing my arms in front of my chest after removing my glasses. I could tell that my face was plastered with confusion, and I could tell he knew. Unfortunately, I didn't do any means to stop it. My white, quarter sleeved blouse was making me hot. I shook my head as soon as I felt a rising temperature in my chest. I leaned forward, kicking my feet a little past the beam supporting the small table. I took one last sip of my latte before getting up to throw it away.
I returned to the table so I could study a little more of this man. Well, for starters, he had dark ebony hair. It swept across his forehead, rounding his left eye. Oh, his eyes. How amazing they were: a light, crystal blue. With every blink, I swore they got even more beautiful. His eyes were deep, though. I'm not sure if it's his seductive eyebrows overshadowing them, giving them a darker tint, or, if it's the way he looked out with them. How with every look he made, he studied it intently as if it were his last. His rolled up sleeves of his dark black, button up shirt fitted his elbows magically. At the very top of his button up shirt, the top two buttons were left open, showing off a portion of his chest.
I crossed my legs, once again leaning back. I flickered my curly, ruby hair off my shoulder and placed my fingers to my lips, concentrating. 'What was he thinking about?' 'What was he looking at?' These questions stormed in and out of my mind as I continued to study the flawless man. But only one stayed into place, 'Who was he?' He looked out the window of the cafe at the empty streets of France. I looked out the window I was next to, trying to see if there was anything out there that captured this man's attention so much.
Even though I have been living here for a year, France was still breathtaking. But this man looked French. He moved in a French manner, sipped his mocha in a French style, positioned himself in a French way! So, if growing up in this country wasn't enough amazement, then what could make a boring street of France seem so mesmerizing?
Then I found it. I gaped a little, but at least I found it. Across the street from the little cafe was a beauty salon. And in the big, glass window was a mirror. And if I looked hard enough, the pathway of the reflection took my eye sight straight to the man. He smirked when I looked at him, probably making fun of my ajar-ed mouth.
He was looking at me!
I quickly turned my head, chin placed in palm as I leaned on the table. From the corner of my eyes, I looked at the man in the cafe. He was staring at me, but this time, not through a store's mirror. He was starring at me. I felt a hot blush infuse my face. Oh well this is natural, I'm blushing. I lent my head down, looking at the ground, as I pretended to itch a certain spot on my head. Then I did a quick glance and found that the man was starting towards me. Before he reached my table, I jumped off, grabbing my laptop, and headed out the door.
The next day, I was reluctant about coming in. I even stood at the door of the cafe, contemplating my decision until an old, grumpy woman started yelling at me in rapid French. Of course I didn't know what she was saying but I got the point that she wanted me to move. I stepped down the one step to the door, turning to leave, when I went crashing into someone. But of course it's never just someone, its that one someone you were meant to crash into like in stories.
My body froze and I tried so hard not to look like a freak, but it was too late. My arms stretched out to my waist, tight to my body. My eyes wide, and my legs locked. How could I not look like a freak?
I finally unfroze, then peered down below me. There he was on his hands and knees, picking up my papers that fell from my arm. I bent down to get them, but as soon as those crystal blue eyes made contact with my bright green ones, I got up and headed back to my flat.
The next day I decided not to do my usual 11:30 run to the cafe. Instead, I waited until two o'clock. That way, he would already be gone and I wouldn't have to face him and his seductive eyes again. But I was eventually going to have to talk to him, for he had my papers. I opened my laptop bag, rumaging through for a certain story that I printed out yesterday. I knew that the papers I had under my arm yesterday were two of my stories, but I was pretty sure that the only one I managed to grawas the one I finished two days ago. But when I found one of the two paper clipped stories, I realized I had grabbed the wrong one. The mysterious man had my only finished product.
To relieve my stress, I walked to the little cafe a little earlier than two o'clock. I got there around 1:46. I sat down at my usual table, with my usual latte. I scanned my surroundings, and as if planned, there was the mysterious man again. This time he was in a white button up shirt and nicely fitted jeans. Casual. I scowled at him and turned to face the outside scenery.
A few minutes passed before I heard the chair across from me pulled out from underneath the table. I looked over and he was there, smiling at me. I normally would have said something along the lines of, "Hello again, you're the one that I ran into yesterday." Or if I was feeling really stupid, I would have said something like, "Hello, you're the one I can never take my eyes off if." But instead, I starred back at him, my face blank of expression and my arms crossed. My long, curled red hair was at my mid back, behind my shoulders, and my glasses were indeed on. He was still smiling at me until a fatal, "Hmm." escaped his lips. I rose one of my eyebrows, confused by his actions. He continued anyway,
"See, I liked everything about this," He said, sliding my paper clipped story in front of me. I quickly grabbed it, embarrassed by the fact that some mysterious stranger that I have had a crush on read one of my stories. "But there's only one thing that I must point out for you to fix." He grinned.
My face still blank, I responded, "What?"
"My name's not 'Felipe', it's Pierre."
...
