There is this girl who sits in one of the booths across from the window in the coffee shop.
She has brown hair that falls in curls around her shoulders and is almost always writing something on her laptop.
If she isn't writing. She is reading, and she sips on caramel macchiato,
after caramel macchiato,
after caramel macchiato.
She looks like she's always got something on her mind, like she's always thinking. Her eyes are bright and sharp.
The first time he notices her, it's because she is in line behind him, when he turns around, he sees the rosiness of her cheeks and the softness of her skin, and for a moment, he is breathless.
It seems, by the widening of her eyes and heave of her chest, that for a moment, she is breathless, too.
So he watches her, now. He taps rhythms with his fingertips on the wooden table and steals glances at her, takes in the way her brown crinkles when she is deep in thought and the rich, chocolate brown eyes.
He thinks he might be going crazy, but sometimes he swears he catches her staring at him, too.