Chapter 2 . The Meeting.

After receiving an unexpected note in her book while in a local coffee shop, a young woman meets the writer of the note, but is plagued by self doubt and loathing.

I sit not at my usual table but across from it. I don’t know why, but I just can’t sit there; almost like a forcefield repels me. I stare blankly at an extravagant, abstract painting of - well, I wasn’t entirely sure what. I direct my attention to my book, a beat up copy of Hard Love, the place where he left the note that began this entire escapade. It is one of my favorite books, a collection of beautifully combined words that is eternally a part of who I am. Whoever that is. 

A very attractive young man, one I’m pretty sure works at the authentic Italian restaurant a few buildings down the street, glides in. I say a quiet prayer to the God I seldom speak to and beg Him to let the gorgeous creature be the man that has declared me his enchantress.

The negative thought - still clutching my ear to the point of drawing blood - caresses my sense of hearing with my own self loathing, telling me how far I am from being good enough. I attempt to rip my eyes from the incredibly handsome male, but cannot bear to. He notices my stare and his lovely hazel eyes illuminate with a smile. He glides towards me, curly brown hair and light brown skin glowing in the warm coffee house lighting. My jaw falls as he perches lightly on the chair across from me.

“Briar Mariella,” he sings in a sultry voice.

I stutter. I stammer. I start to cover my face with my hands. A warm pair of gloved hands brings my own cold ones to the table. When I finally build the courage to look up, I find that his face is much closer to mine than I expected. A squeal pops out of my mouth and slaps him. I press my hands to my mouth as he laughs sweetly. He shakes his head while removing his gloves and stylish peacoat, revealing a plaid button down across a broad chest (well defined, from what I could tell), complimented by a black vest and tie. I feel both cheap and drab in my thrift store-bought sweater dress. Ironically, he compliments my outfit with a sophisticated “You look exquisite, my dear.”

To my dismay, I discover that my mouth hangs open once more. I snap it shut and attempt to look at anything but him. The floor does not hold my attention for very long and looking at the ceiling makes my avoidance apparent. I discover his overflowing patience almost immediately, for he does not force me to look at him or even start a conversation. He simply sits with me quietly for a few moments.

Right when I think the silence will kill me, he asks “Can I get you something to drink or eat? The chai tea lattes are to die fo- I mean, quite good.”

“I know,” I mutter a little too tersely. I look up to see if he has taken offense, but a smile shines broadly on his face.

“I’ll get you one, then,” but as he begins to get up, I stop him.

“No, it’s okay. I- well, to be honest, I don’t know you and I don’t need you putting something in my drink to,” I trail off, feeling awkward. He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.

“Well, you shall accompany me in ordering, then, and it will simply be my treat. I insist.”

My thoughts begin to race, as they often do, formulating far too many motives as well as alternate situations. I feel regret begin to grab at my other ear and also my heart, telling me in between fits of laughter  how stupid I was for not only calling but agreeing to meet Leo.

It occurs to me that my thoughts may destroy me before I can even get corrected by the barista when I call the grande a large.

Lovely.

Author's Note

I appreciate any and all constructive criticism.