The Romance in Being Invisible

He stared blankly into his coffee,
As if hypnotized by his caramel colored reflection in the cup.
He was waiting.
He had been waiting for the past 30 minutes.
Waiting for her to walk by,
Peer through her hay colored mess that was her hair and notice him.
She’d sit down.
Out of breath,
Yet with a certain grace or ease.
She’d quickly apologize,
In a less than sincere manner.
She’d apologize for keeping him waiting,
As she’d raise her hand,
Trying to no avail to flag down a waiter.
Insert pointed remark about the service in this dive.
But he wouldn’t hear her.
He never did.
He didn’t love her words,
As awful as he knew it sounded.
He loved her for many reasons,
But her words were not one of them.

The tiny bell that dangled over the door rang clear and awoke him from his daze.
A slender figure with sun kissed blond hair seemed to breeze through the overbearing door frame.
It was her.
She seemed to glide as she approached him.
She looked at him.
She stared right through him.
She saw into his broken heart as she walked by.
She walked by,
And slowly,
With painful ease and grace,
Sat about three table lengths away.
But she was not alone,
Not alone as he was.
She was with someone.
A man.
He felt himself regress to a Neanderthal like state of jealousy.
How dare she?
How could she?
How could she do this to him?
He winced in pain as she laughed at this other man’s jokes.
He did not hear his jokes.
He did not hear her laugh.
He did not hear her.
He could not.
He could not hear her words,
Because they were not spoken to him.


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