Hidden confessions of a coffee shop.

He sketched her with such finesse, scanning her every feature with his sharp gaze. He would look at her frequently, making sure each detail was just right. She was reading. Philosophy, or sociology, or some other subject that sends you in a deep whirlwind of intense thought. She was too busy taking notes to enter that trance. Reading but not looking. He must have erased her face six times before really beginning. She had a good face to sketch. Perfect cheekbones. Thick eyebrows. Something you would want to see in a drawing. Something you would buy because it looked deep. They would probably think she was his former lover, someone he lost in some grand, tragic story. Or someone he could never have because he never got the courage to talk to her. Just silently watching her, wishing. Her eyes were filled with passion; it made you want to know her. Little would they know she was nobody. Neither was he. They had been sitting at the tables next to each other at a coffee shop. Never destined to meet. Just put there by some cosmic twist of fate. By the way he looked at her you would think he saw inside her. To her core. She would be his masterpiece and he wouldn’t even know her name. He made her prettier than she was, like all artists do. Her face smaller, her eyes darker and more worthy. He gave her more character, more person. It was a beautiful silent exchange of fates. I watched these two carefully, because they were different. They were the reason the little coffee shop on the corner existed. They were the reason I had a soul.