Whether for Castes

It’s later than it ought to be and the streets are completely empty. The tired lights shine on stubbornly, trying to compensate for the lack of sun. The cold air bites into the exposed skin of my face and hands and so I do have not have ability to protest when he opens the door for me. If the temperature were higher by ten degrees I would have found the time and patience to debate over formalities. However, a late night caffeine kick was calling my name and I reason it couldn’t hurt if for a few moments he felt glee at performing a gentlemanly task. After mumbling a thanks, I march up to the counter and without a thought order the elixir for exhaustion. He stands shyly next to me and asks for a tea. The coffee shop owner takes a look at the two of us and a smile overtakes his weathered and wrinkled face. The barista behind the counter let her eyes linger over the silent statue at my side before starting on my coffee. Unknowingly I inch closer to claim my territory. The owner hands me my coffee and lets his fingers awkwardly touch mine, staring too closely into my eyes. I hand over a bill before my date can even reach into his pocket. The owner hands over the tea and gives my statue a little wink.

I sit down first at a table beside the front window. I want to have the option to look at something interesting if the time calls for it. My companion sheepishly sits across from me, the table too wide for the two of us. We are the only customers, the room bare and made of wood, where echoes effortlessly bounce off the walls. I use both my hands to grasp the paper cup and wonder, why him? Why did I choose to bring him out of anyone else? I haven’t spent any of my free time seeing anyone and here was my first human contact in days. By deduction, he was the only soul at home on a Saturday night who was willing to go out and walk with me and listen to my bumbling. It wasn’t a secret how he felt. I stare at my hands and the wood grain of the table. It is uncomfortable to look into his eyes. I know how he always looks at me. I know how he studies my face with intense precision. When I look at my hands, I feel him staring. I look up suddenly and glance into his eyes, catching him off guard. He gives a small smile and looking at him becomes too difficult. His eyes are filled with too many promises. He looks at me with such endearment that it becomes embarrassing. I look over his shoulder and tried to keep my proud voice at the volume of a whisper. The coffee shop is too quiet, too hollow, and I was simply trying to fill the void.
You see, that night in the coffee house I looked into his eyes and foretold the future. Back then, I predicted the day that we had together last week. We walk in sync down a cold rainy street together with our arms linked. I am not so angry at the world and I have learned that gentlemanly tasks are few and far between. I hold my red umbrella over our heads and he complains that he cannot see where I am leading him. I actually have been happier than I have felt in the past few weeks. A smile remains plastered on my face from when I first met him at the park.
It’s still the early evening as it should be and the streets are filled with people rushing home from the rain. The rhythmic sounds of tires on wet pavement compensate for my wet wool coat. The moisture in the air kisses the exposed skin of my face and hands and he did not have the ability to protest when my hand squeezes his upper arm. If the raindrops would fall slower by ten percent we might find the formality to not stand so close. However, a quick hesitation from walking was calling my name and we reasoned it couldn’t hurt if for a few moments to wait under an awning until the sky stopped crying. After whispering a declaration of love, he steps up to me and without a thought plants a kiss of appreciation on my lips. I kiss shyly back and wished for another. The guitar shop owner inside takes a look at the two of us and a roll of the eyes overtakes his bored and begotten face. The customer inside lets his eyes linger over at our still statues before continuing his browsing. Unknowingly I find myself staring at him to analyze my conquest. After a quick judgment call, I say a quick goodbye and turn away before my date can even reach for my hand. The guitar shop owner delivers a knowing look and shakes his head in understanding.
You see, that afternoon on that Manhattan street I looked into his eyes and I saw the present state we were in. I had a vision of that night we had so many years ago. He told me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He made the mistake of telling me to think about that. He procrastinated and took three years to finally act upon his observation and show his appreciation. I am not so romantic about the world and I have learned that true gentlemen take action in the immediate. Instead of turning around, I conjured up an image of his face. It was of his reflection in the coffee house window, a ghost of his face. I find it easier to bear. A reflection carries no promises in its eyes. I find it difficult to not get frustrated with his shortcomings. He has always been too quiet, too hollow, and I foolishly try to fill the void. I actually am even happier than when that stupid grin was glued to my face.
You see, that moment I realized I was holding my red umbrella and I left him as a fool in the rain.