On the terrace where I kept my seat,
As he lingered there, two fingers on the lip
Of a coffee cup, the slow game of sweet
Imagination played. Dark swathes of rogue,
Rich hair; his face a monument to his
Purpose, concentration, as he read
A novel at the café’s outside seating.
Two fingers, on the lip: a motionless
Instruction, a pose most apposite
Whilst I savoured my cigarette, some seats away.
The truth-or-dare of watching; a staring game
The rules of which we’re only now discovering.
There is no more exquisite pleasure, than
The promise of these flavours, savoured here –
That face returns: and so I place my wager
In the inhalation of smoke, and taste of coffee,
Draining my cup. I hold the moment finely,
Readying myself for our discussion.
I think we’ve all had the pleasure of seeing, entirely by chance, a beautiful person at a café. Isn’t it just divine, to waste a few minutes drinking down their image, half-flirtatiously; subtly enjoying the view? And then, of course, you go your separate ways. You finish your drink, gather your coat and continue life. This is an important a part of the process: crossing paths briefly, and enjoying that brevity.