Starbucks

I saw the couple this morning, sitting out in the bright sunlight, drinking their coffee, and they caught my attention instantly.

Something in their postures, the way they seemed physically comfortable with each other, spoke to me.

I thought: they slept together last night.

But there was something else, some other quality, and I don't think I can put words to what it was, that also said it was the First Time, and things were still very new yet.

She was blonde--not naturally, but skillfully--and though short, a little too heavy to be called 'petite'. She was leaning into him, and their fingers touched on the tabletop. She wasn't particularly pretty, or young. Mid-thirties, forty maybe.

He was older than she was; his short, neatly-trimmed hair graying a bit on the sides. He wore sunglasses, perfectly natural in the glare of the morning sun, but worrisome--was he trying to hide something in his expression?

Just looking at them, I thought I could tell their story.

I thought of them meeting online somewhere, chatting and then emailing each other. She was still healing from a break-up, maybe, and fragile.

He pursued her online, she was flattered, they exchanged pictures.

More insistent emails followed: "I have to meet you." Chipping away at her resistance, until finally she agreed.

They set up a meeting.

Last night.

In person, he was smooth, and she was vulnerable. She let down her guard, let him in. It felt so good to let herself go for once. She wouldn't let herself worry about what would happen afterward. She'd be spontaneous.

And so they'd ended up in bed together, and she'd spent the night.

And now, here they were at Starbucks, sharing their breakfast coffee, the Morning After.

I was openly watching them now, wondering if this man was going to hurt her. Was this the moment they would part ways? Had he brought her here, a public place, to tell her they were done? We don't throw messy scenes at Starbucks.

Would he at least let her down gently?

She said something I couldn't hear and he dipped his head, listening intently. He seemed honestly engaged in this conversation.

He appeared to be in no hurry to finish his drink, get up and leave.

His left hand, relaxed around the coffee cup, came free, found hers across the table, linked fingers.

Now I was feeling conflicted. Was my initial impression the right one, or was there a connection here?

Silence, as they finished their coffees. Companionable, or awkward?

They lingered over their empty coffee cups. Neither one seemed to want to get up.

Maybe they didn't want to leave each other? Or maybe neither one wanted to be the first to say it wasn't working.

He took his hand from hers, scooted, turned his chair, his back to the sun. Reached up and took off the sunglasses now that he was out of the glare.

I thought: he will rise, gather up the coffee cups, and now they'll leave. I'll never know.

Again she spoke, and he turned, looking right at her.

From where I sat, nearby, I could see the expression on his face, the look in his eyes as she spoke, and the sudden, wide-open smile that lit up his face at her words revealed more than he knew.

It told me he genuinely liked her, which surprised me. She wasn't the type of pretty young thing most guys go for.

I liked that he looked deeper, saw something there. I liked the way he reached out again and held her hand, and the way the smile stayed in his eyes even after it had faded from his lips.

She leaned across the table then, and pecked him on the cheek.

I left the store with a spring in my step, my own smile wide as could be.