April
For the past few months, I've found profound tranquility in one spot at a café downtown. They have the best coffee in town – You have to believe me, for I am a man who knows his coffee-
Every evening, I make my way to this café, I acknowledge the doorman, a thin old man, with a nod. He nods back with a smile. I'd like to think we are friends, despite never having uttered a single word to each other. But we are friends; he knows me, and I know him. If one day, for whatever reason, I fail to show up at the cafe at 8:30 pm, I'm sure he would be alarmed. If, for whatever reason, I don't find him there, on his stool by the door, reading the same old magazine, I'll be alarmed.
The café, hidden away in a quiet corner of the city, is a haven. The rich coffee scent pleases your nose, and warm lighting and dark brown aesthetic decorations give the place a vintage vibe. On the tables, people talk in hushed tones, careful not to upset the tranquility.
I have a favorite spot in this small café, a four-seater booth at the very end. I walk to my spot - I have no justification for calling it mine- and sit close to the window. I like this window. Through it, I can watch French men and women walking up and down the street, rushing home from work.
This week, I'm reading David Baldacci. Last week was James Patterson, the week before was Danielle Steel. Next week, it'll be Fyodor Dostoevsky, and the week after, Charlotte Bronte.
As soon as I open my book, the first drop of rain hits the clear glass next to me. I knew it would rain today, just didn't think it would be this soon. All the signs had been there since late afternoon. Nevertheless, I turn to my book and pick up where I left off yesterday at 10 pm when I left this cozy café.
Five minutes after I sit down, my order arrives —mind you, I made no order--
I look up at my favorite waiter, an enthusiastic young gentleman who is always happy to see me —or so I imagine--
Just like the doorman, he too knows me, knows what time I come in, and what my usual order is. He smiles as he carefully places the coffee before me, next to it, a slightly warm croissant. Just how I like it!
Without a word —for with us, words are of no use because he knows me, and I know him-- he walks away.
I grab my scarf from my bag and throw it around my neck. I turn to the window, now filled with raindrops, blurring everything outside.
I love this weather, just like I love this cozy cafe, just like I love the one and a half hours I spend here. I love being alone in this cozy little cafe, reading alone, sipping my latte with two shots of caramel. It's therapeutic, tranquil, peaceful. I can think of no better feeling than this.
I read three more chapters before I glance outside, the glass has turned misty, the rain outside more intense. The little bell above the cafe's door rings to notify the arrival of a new customer. I glance up, -- normally I wouldn't do this-- to see who has entered. It is a woman, no, no, not a woman, a lady. A beautiful young lady.
My dear friend the doorman takes her umbrella and shakes it off as she walks further in.
I should really get back to my reading, but I can't bring myself to look away from her. She's new here, -- don't ask me how I know this, I just do--
She looks around for a free table at this cozy cafe that is hidden at a quiet corner of the city
My waiter friend walks to her with a smile and engage in warm conversation, --at least that is what it seems like from where I am--
He points her to an empty table two tables away from me and she gives him a friendly nod. --It seems like the nod is the common language of the people of this city--
I quickly look down at my book as this woman walk...no, no, not woman, lady. I quickly look down at my book as this lady, --not just any lady, a beautiful lady-- walks to the free table two tables away from me.
I ought to stay focused on matters that brought me to this cozy café, --Mind you, I had never been distracted from my reading in the many months that I had visited this cafe, up until the beautiful lady walked in--
Nonetheless, I read a few more lines but my attention is divided, --the face of the beautiful lady keeps going in a loop in my head and I can't focus on my book. Perhaps I should just look up at her one last time—Maybe this way I'll be able to get her face out of my head.
I look up and the beautiful lady, she is talking to my waiter friend, perhaps asking him what is best for her to take in this cozy cafe.
As she speaks, I notice her smile, what a beautiful smile she has, and her eyes, never in my many months in this café have I seen such gorgeous eyes, --I should really get back to my reading, or, or at least take a sip of my coffee that's getting cooler with every minute-- everything about her is beautiful. I wonder how Mahmoud Darwish would have described her... -I consider him one of the greatest poets to have ever walked the earth. -
I manage to look away from the beautiful lady, I sip my coffee and carry on with reading. I read a whole chapter before I get the urge to look up again. --Just to make sure she is comfortable in this cozy café –