Muses for Coffee

Meet me for coffee. That tiny place up the street with that welcoming fireplace, and the soft, incandescent lights. I'll sit at a table for two, make sure there's room for just me. I'll be reading Camus when you get there, for no other reason than it seems like the right flavor at the time. My coffee will be black, because Camus always makes me think of thick, black coffee and the way it grabs hold of the senses. Immersion in a world just this side of a dream.

You will sit somewhere I can almost see you. But not quite. Another table across the room, but not too far. You'll have to pass me to get there. So close. I'll catch your scent, and smile; musk and mystery. I will keep reading; letting my eyes pass along the words, really just caressing the page as my attention is caught up in the essence of you, just beyond my senses.

Stolen glances, maybe a smile. But that is all. No words to tame silence, no awkward pauses that need to be relieved by anything but my fingertips, dancing on keys. Later. Much later after my coffee is gone and my ruse of reading done. After I've filled those gaps, that silence, that place with conversations we never had, words we never exchanged.

You will leave first. Because you have to. Because I won't. Because I can't. Because I'm holding my breath behind that book so I don't. So I don't. So I don't. Wreck the perfection that is this dream. That is this muse. That is this soul I can't and won't catch, but will only see once before you are gone to me forever. Out of reach. Blessedly out of reach, standing on a beach somewhere far away.

Maybe someday a breeze will catch you just right, and you'll think of me. But I'm not the important one. I am not the muse. You are. And you are perfect.

So I don't.