a short story
I have a deep love for coffee shops. Especially local ones that hold truly the most intriguing people in the world. Local coffee shops have so much character. Mine is a lovely place with a deep soul and sense of classic. There is a lot of messy modern art, and the colors are a nice shade of hipster mixed with 70s. They play Jack Johnson and John Mayer. Occasionally a man with a banjo will come and play in a corner. I remember it was the first place I ever really encountered hipsters. I didn't even know what they were called, I just loved their type. They intrigued me. I loved watching them, and still enjoy watching them. Indeed, my coffee shop is just my favorite place in the world.
I went there with my cousin recently. She and I enjoy hanging out together at chill places like that and having ridiculous conversations that no one else would understand, they're so sprinkled with inside jokes. We went in, and as I walked in, I saw him. The second I saw him, I started imagining stories about him. I do that with interesting people. On occasion, and it isn't very common, I will see a person and immediately start coming up with stories about them in my head, because they seem like such interesting characters - different from most people you see in the world. Intriguing. Fascinating. Different. And suddenly my mind is captured. He was one of those humans.
My cousin and I went up to the front to order our drink and dessert, and then crawled off to the comfy chairs in the shop. We sat down and began noshing on our food, when I suddenly realized I was facing the young man who I had noticed when I walked in.
There was something different about him. He was sitting at a table with his Mac open, occasionally chuckling to himself. This immediately hinted to me how down to earth he was. You see almost no one at a coffee shop with their laptops open laughing to themselves. It reminded me of myself, and that, of course, intrigues me. He wore a blue and white plaid shirt, complete with khakis and boat shoes. He would run his hands through his hair, chuckle, rub his eyes, and go merrily about whatever was so apparently interesting to him. It was nearly a pattern. Hair, chuckle, eyes, laptop.
He got up and walked up to the front to order more coffee. That is the sign of a true coffee drinker: getting two large coffees in one sitting. As he was standing in the front, I was laughing at something my cousin said as I usually do, and I happened to look up at him. As I laughed casually at whatever she had said, he caught my eye, and he smiled at me.
Now I wouldn't call myself ugly or unattractive, but it's not very common such a down to earth, hipster guy will look at me with that deepness of smile. It was that smile that only guys can smile: the smile of intrigue and honesty that they only smile at girls. That smile alone is the best compliment a girl can ever receive. I chuckled and whispered to my cousin as he walked out of view for a moment what he had done. I was flattered that the deep eyes had just smiled at mine.
He came back and sat down, continuing his pattern of rubbing his hands through his hair and chuckling. I watched him occasionally just to see what he was doing. He interested me. There was something so alive about him that made me want to strike up a conversation with him. So few humans nowadays seem alive. They appear dead inside. They don't smile. They don't talk. They don't do anything. He had a sense of carelessness and yet soul in him that I rarely see, but love it when I do. Which is just why he struck me as a character to write about when I saw him.
Sometimes when I happened to glance at him, he would glance at me.
Then we'd both glance away.
Then he would chuckle at his Mac and I would chuckle with my cousin.
And we'd go on about whatever we were doing.
Repeat.
I continued watching the man in the plaid shirt. And I kept wondering what he was like. Who his friends were. What he was laughing at. He just continued to sit there.
Run hands through hair.
Chuckle.
Rub eyes.
Repeat.
I continued talking with my cousin about life - college work, annotated bibliographies, prom, turning school work in late, YouTube. Until finally it was late and we had school work to do, both of us, and we gathered all of our things together to leave. I looked at the man in the plaid shirt. The 20-something plaid-clad young man didn't look up at me. I didn't care. Much. Tho I wanted one last look at his eyes - his sincere, careless, honest, down to earth eyes. His eyes alone would give me a story to write about.
I walked out the door, and I wondered - would the seemingly shy yet sanguine eyes look up when he thought I wasn't looking back?
I looked back.
And sure enough, I was right. His deep eyes looked up at me, and in him I saw that deepness of soul again. Rarely do I see those kinds of eyes. Rarely will I see them again. A lop-sided grin crossed his face.
Those eyes are inspiring of a story.
I think I'll be going back to that coffee shop soon.
Mostly to get coffee.
But maybe the deep soul filled eyes will be there again.
And the story can continue.
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