It is like a scene from a movie.
He is on the other side of the coffee shop
by the window, drinking his latte—
pumpkin. I can see the red P
scribbled just above his finger.
He’s the only man I’ve ever seen
drink something pumpkin.
Is that why I fall in love
with him so quickly?
He stares out of the window
through the curtain of fallen
leaves gliding in the wind.
I write down what he’s wearing in my notepad—
blue cardigan, gray button down,
the color brings out the pink in his lips—
like bubble gum,
with a hint of pumpkin spice.
I write the scene:
He turns and sees me watching,
returns my stare with the intensity of his clear, blue eyes.
He takes a sip from his cup,
licks the whipped cream residue from his upper lip.
My heart flutters when he rises from his seat
I can feel my pulse in my throat—
it chokes me.
He’s closer now, the magnetic pull of his eyes
drives the movement of my pen—
calligraphic letters decorate the page with our love story.
I tilt my head,
ready myself for his seasoned lips
to blend with the caramel of my left cheek.
Suddenly, he breaks our connection,
tosses his empty cup into the trash can next to my table
and leaves the shop,
disappearing behind maelstrom of brown leaves,
ellipses following closely behind him.
I drop my pen.
This post is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The prompt: scene/seen