mynameismagic.

Dear girl in the coffee shop:

I think I could marry you.  You’re a vision, you know.  You looked so happy, smiling widely and reaching across the wicker table, batting at your friend’s hands.  I think I could tell you all my secrets.  Every one.  I can tell that you would unwrap them slowly and cup them, treasuring them.  Your light green eyes tell me that for you, a secret is a gift that you’ve been trusted with for eternity.

I noticed you because you drink your coffee just as I do.  You took the lid off to fold the mouth open.  Sharp fingernails left imprints in the Styrofoam so that your hands would know where they should return to on the cup.  You held my attention because of the way you pulled your bottom teeth across your top lip after every sip.  The tiniest of motions.

You saw me, too.  I don’t know what you must have thought of me, sitting alone in my corner, but you smiled.  I like your smile.  It’s unabashed, no fear of showing emotion.  Our eyes met for a moment and it was as if we were speaking.  Then you squealed and turned away, wiggling around to get the ice cube out of your top, where your friend had unceremoniously dumped it.

When you looked back, I was gone.  And I know you looked back.  I can feel it in my very being.  I’m sorry that I left.  But you scared me.  You still scare me.  I could fall in love with you, without ever speaking to you.  And that is terrifying.

You were there the next day, too.  I saw you come in, running a long-fingered hand through your loose and ruffled hair.  You picked a few stray leaves out of the mahogany curls, laughing.  Maybe it’s your laugh.  I like the sound of it, the quiet deep thunder of gaiety that tumbles from your pink lips.  You saw me and smiled.  I looked back down at my crossword puzzle, pretending the heat searing across my cheeks wasn’t a blush.

When I got up to get a small pastry, you were staring off into space as your friends rambled on next to you.  My movement caught your attention; I could feel your eyes examining me.  I could sense your small smile.

Then you were next to me, leaning over the counter and casually asking for water.  You smelled like winter, I noticed.  Not that awful dank smell of wetness, but of the light lace scent before the first snow.  It’s almost an invisible mint, so faint that you think you might have imagined it.  You smelled like the fresh, frosty breeze.

You glanced at me out of the corner of your eye.  I watched you stare at my hands, lingering on the ring.  It didn’t seem to surprise you, which confirmed my own suspicions.  I wasn’t that surprised.  You smiled and pursed your lips as if you were going to say something.  I grabbed my pastry and handed over what I owed.  You looked away and thanked the worker with a sunny smile.  Your plethora of bracelets chimed against the countertop as you turned away.

The third time I see you, you’ve arrived before me.  I pause in the doorway, recognizing the loose braid with embedded flowers even from there.  I content myself with three tables between us.  You’re laughing again, head thrown back; your hand on your friend’s wrist.

When you see me, a small blush dances across your cheeks, the rosy glow highlighting your spray of freckles.  Your friend sees and nudges you, telling you in a loud voice to stop flirting.  Now I’m blushing.

I feel your eyes on me, and I don’t dare look up.  When the sensation leaves, I give in and raise my head.  You’re talking with your friend, but your left hand is propped up at an awkward angle, so that the palm faces me.  In big black letters, you’ve written HI.  You glance at me and smile again.  I duck my head and rummage through my purse.

It’s not crossword day, so I don’t have a pen.  This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.  I’m desperate, looking for anything that will write, and I find my lipstick.  Ignoring the clammy stickiness, I scrawl on my own palm, HELLO.

I hear you laugh again.  Just like before, you appear like a ghost next to me.  Your white sundress is grass-stained and makes you look more than perfect.  You don’t tell me your name, but you don’t need to do so.  Instead, you tell me who you are.  I return the favor.

You don’t judge me.  Hours pass by.  I can name your favorite color, your favorite food.  I know that you didn’t play with dolls like other girls.  You were too busy playing tag with your three older brothers, dancing in the dirt.

After the fourth hour, I unzip my chest, tug my ribcage carefully apart, and show you my heart.  You are quiet, appreciative of such a gesture.  You do not rush through things.  You look at each wound, scratch, and scar.  You ask questions, but never in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable.

I answer you more truthfully than I have anyone else.  When you point to the raw and ragged hole just below my left ventricle, I admit that it’s from my last lover.  You note that it’s healing but still has a long way to go.  I agree.  After a few more moments, I push my ribcage back together and close myself up like a clam.

You let your hand rest on top of mine for a moment, and it’s enough.

I know I’m in love with you.

The next few weeks are blurs.  Slowly, we are becoming one person.  You can complete my sentences but rarely do so; I braid your long, loose hair and weave in my favorite flowers.  I can feel the beginnings of our child in my heart, but I do not tell you this.  Seasons fade and pass.  Your kiss is like a shooting star, fast and lovely, brushing across my very soul.

Our child has bloomed and is no longer just in my heart but in yours.  She’s just as lovely as you are, wild and free, unchained by society and its penetrating gaze.  She grows like a tree, slow and sure and full of beauty.  We cry together as she graduates, my face pressed against your shoulder, the satin of your shirt as smooth and cool as the season you still smell like.

Everything fades away.

Your palm read HI, the letters dark against the map of your life, the one imprinted on your palm.  It wasn’t crossword day, so I didn’t have a pen.  I didn’t have my lipstick.

I didn’t have enough trust.  I went back to my book.  I never gave you a chance to become a part of me.

When you left, I was watching from underneath my eyelashes.  You looked a little sad, but it passed over your face like a summer storm—fleetingly.

You never came back to the coffee shop.  I don’t know why I still come here.

I don’t even like coffee.