Hello. It's Day Four.
I saw a girl who made coffee.
Hunched over the notebook, her hand sifted through her hair. The other one wound disturbingly rigid over her pen - a gesture so simple, and mindless and yet, exuded such great possession, as if she was scribbling God's secret plan for harmony, and wanted to hide His tool, lest everyone found the power behind it. The reflection of the snow on the glass drew stories on her compact stature, and relaxed fingers, both of which that gave nothing away. The primal, worn leather of her notebook, and the rusty and stained tip of her fountain pen, her foot tapping every time Sinatra came on, the heavy cream in her coffee, and the now, very decimated chocolate muffin screamed sonnets about her reservation of belonging to the old world. Yet, the threads of her torn jeans, the scuff on her boots, the red strap of her bra playing peek-a-boo with her cardigan, stood testament of a woman delivered mistakenly by the stork, who was born to own. Her abrupt velocity with the notebook made me feel she was amongst the ones whose handwriting on a page could be read for another ten more leafs, the one a blind man could touch and read; and smile knowing what beauty the mind that made those scrawls beheld.
The ring above the door, breaks through her and my preoccupation.
"A double cream regular, please."
She politely smiled and handed me my order. The warm hands and the outside snow was all life felt about. "That'll be 8 quids, and ye some warmth for a cold Christmas."
As I leave, I feel the cup sleeve lighter than it's meant to be. I turn it fully open, and stared right back at me was what might have been my reflection for her. I touched the back of the sleeve to quench my curiosity about her hard handed scrawl and felt the picture spread warmly through to my gut. I knew a girl who sold smiles, wrapped around coffees.
Wanted a wee bit of ye poem in there. Until then.
Also, some Sinatra for ye'all!
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.