blank pages and cigarettes (part 1 - short story)

this is one of the first works I ever wrote, so be merciful.

As a writer, you will learn the art of eavesdropping. Whenever I ran out of ideas, I choose the coffee shop to stay at. Sit alone with a fresh new notebook and your ever favourite pen; listen to people talk whether its how interested they are with new gossip, teens giggling, fate’s mere appearances and once in a blue moon, I’m rewarded with the talk of their passions. All of which is fascinating. Humanity is fascinating.

I took a sip. 

I began to write. To take at least a dab part out of my messy, messy mind. I also write not for the payment and recognition I get but to keep my sanity at level. I was ending a poem about the sea and an old man when the bell rings between the double doors, indicating a new customer. He comes walking with a rush and he flexes his jaw as though irritation ticks him endless. My heart hammered. He was beautiful. 

He catches me looking and there is a shift from the continuous course of the universe - his face softens.

It was as if the small coffee shop was a labyrinth. The people who came in and out were the mazes, the chatter the foundation of dead-ends, the coffee cups the obstacles, the atmosphere the mist alone. The highest of all boundaries, that forbids him to see me. To hold me. To catch me. To save me. 

Completely.

He breaks away the unusual contact to talk to the cashier in front of him. He pays and I see bills shaped like liquorice. Crumpled using the insides of a fist is what I suspect. He heads straight for the table of two just outside the cafe. I have the perfect view.  He sits by himself and wraps his thick black coat tighter to himself. He lets out a shaky breath. The winter winds are having no mercy and he chose to sit outside. But still all I could think of besides his body temperature, was his black coat. How lucky that coat was.

After a few seconds, he takes out a book from his back pocket. I was astonished the way how the eyes of children pop out when they see toy boats floating off fresh lakes. It will take a while before the view sinks in. It was the third edition of J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey. I knew of it because I have the same edition safely tucked away on my bag. He lits a cigarette. 

I looked down at my unfinished poem and turn to the next leaf immediately. A pain free page. The words come flowing with a stronger inclination I have never experienced before. 

"It was tempting to take that cigarette when he furloughs  

and leaves it lying dead on the ash tray

I will lit it again  

to have contact with his vitality. 

But it was fathomless torment I felt when I came to realize that I

will only be the smoke that divulges in the end of his cigarette. 

Never meeting his lips.”