Insight (Editing)

ONE

I sat, as I did most Sunday mornings, in my usual spot in my local cafe, stirring my coffee, watching the liquid turn from the colour of mahogany to bronze as the milk swirled in the cup. It always reminded me of cigarette smoke, the way the white liquid resembled the silver fumes, dispersing in the cup like wisps of smoke filling a room. Like always, I had my headphones in, listening to some alternative band I liked, the drum beats and guitar riff blending into background noise. With one hand holding the handle of the mug, I used the other to turn the pages of the book I was reading. That week it was The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

A single oak table at the corner of the room by the large window with a perfect view of Main Street was my preferred spot. Main Street was always busy and I loved watching people go on with their lives behind the glass, as if I was watching a never-ending film. It made me feel invisible, which was something I aspired to be; I felt more comfortable just being in the background.

I would sit there watching the world spin by, for an hour or so. I get so caught up in trying to interpret people's life stories by their facial expressions and body language that it almost entraps me, becoming in a sense my secret guilty pleasure. Now, to some people that would seem boring, but I would argue that surely the life of others and the endless possibilities they bring is something to marvel, the unique individuality of each person as fascinating as the last.

But that particular Sunday, I had been seated there for hours, aimlessly observing the torrential rain bounce off the grey pavements and huge droplets slide down the glass and run off in mini rivers that flowed into the gutters. I had been avoiding the down pour for so long I thought I might sink into the oak chair, my copper hair blending with the wood until I really was invisible. But even as the time passed, waiting never became tedious. Each time the small bell atop the door rang, I would glance up from the pages of my book and study the newly arrived face. It was a whole different person, with their own unique stories and emotions and problems. A whole new person to try and understand.

I had been there for roughly two hours and was on my second cappuccino when he walked in. He caught my attention in an instant, his appearance certainly striking compared to the usual crowd that socialised in the cafe. Every other person that had come in the cafe seemed irritated by the inconvenient rain, and came in with flustered faces from running towards the cafe for shelter. They all came in practically throwing off their drenched coats or enthusiastically shaking out their umbrellas in the doorway. Yet he walked in wearing a black leather jacket, the leather glistening from the rain in the warm light like the feathers of a raven. His hair was the colour of onyx and it was curly, in a tangled mess from the downpour. His dark complexion matched his eyes, the colour of henna or black coffee. He had a tall, slim frame but you could see the definition of his muscles through his black t-shirt that now clung to his skin from being soaked. His face was perfectly symmetrical, his prominent cheek bones and chiseled jawline making him even more attractive. Because that's what he was - bloody attractive.

The boy ran his fingers through his hair and pushed it away from his face as he grinned a perfect smile at the woman who was serving him his coffee. He paid and went to find a seat, but not after flashing her one more smile, revealing his gleaming white teeth. The first thing I guessed about him: he was a tad arrogant and clearly aware of the fact most girls found him extremely attractive. Secondly, he obviously enjoyed the attention his looks attracted.

For the next twenty minutes I kept glancing over, not often enough to be noticed but often enough to try and figure him out. Because I was slightly puzzled. I was surprised he was alone for starters. I was expecting a girl to walk in and throw her arms around him. It was hard to believe someone like him might be single. But maybe he was the player type. In fact, he most likely was. But then again, that didn't explain why he was sat alone in a cafe like this; I wouldn't of thought that this was a player's scene. He seemed irritated, his fingers drumming on the table with what I assumed to be impatience. He looked like he was waiting for someone and it appeared that they were going to be a no-show.