Thursday: 2:38am -
He stared at me, unsteady, from across the room. His face was stern but not grim, almost questioning but agitated instead of curious. His short dark hair looked black but I knew that if it were to grow out it’d probably look a little more brown. I wondered what he was reading because I could see him looking up from the pages of his book as I caught his eye. It was like he could see me, was watching me. His cup of coffee steamed from the table next to him, black, no other color to it.
He had headphones in and I wondered if he obsessed over music like I do. Lately I’ve been on a huge kick that somehow involves pop-punk, house, bebop jazz from the early 20's, and plenty of songs that make me want to smoke cigarettes like the ones that taste the way William Burroughs' voice sounds. I was just trying to pass another day, bent over my own notebook, but this guy was the only guy in the café and I was tiring of writing, my eyes hurting from getting distracted by the same line over and over.
He looked at me again, so I glanced back down for a second, but when I looked back over there again he caught my eye. I wonder if he was battling his demons as uselessly as I was too, every time I looked he seemed so preoccupied. But he always looked back.
I didn’t recognize he wore the same shirt as me until a little later, after I stuck my nose in my notebooks for another hour and he was still there.
I was afraid at how easily I could lie to myself and believe it.I was surprised that I could see my own reflection, and not recognize it.