Coffee Affair

Chapter Seven

As I took my seat in front of him, I couldn't help but look around the place once again. It was comforting and it felt like I had a piece of my life back where it should of been years ago. The strange boy that sat before me took a small sip of his warm drink. By the way his eyebrows knitted together I could tell he had just brunt his tongue but I decided not to tease him about it. The small tattoo on his hand captured my attention. His long hair that curled at the ends was tucked behind one of his ears. Then I came to contact with his emerald green eyes. They reminded me of a meadow, a vast expanse of green in which I would love to spend a calm afternoon in, with soft music possibly playing through my headphones.

"Were you here a couple days ago?" I asked him.

"Um..yeah I was." He replied with an evil smirk.

I knew it was him. I looked at him long enough to remember some of his features.

"Yeah, I remember. I was fighting with Neil, and you seemed to be laughing at me?"

"Neil was his name, poor guy." He chuckled as I later joined him. His eyes closed as he continued to laugh, showing off his pearl white teeth. God he was handsome.

"Boyfriend I assume?"

"Oh god no! Roommate actually, and a very impolite one if I may say so myself." My drink was getting colder and knowing me I wouldn't be able to drink it once it was cold. So I took a sip as I looked outside the window. It was snowing. The light white particles came down so soothingly they could probably put me to sleep just by looking at them. I could feel his gaze on me; making me look back at him he was in fact looking at me. I looked down at the small wooden table trying to avoid his uncomfortable stare. It was intimidating yet intriguing.

The white papers that were spread in such a messy manner made me curious. They seemed to be poems. All except for one. One just had words written all over it. He quickly gathered his papers and stacked them all together as if he was trying to hide them away from me.

"Poems?" I asked wearily, because I simply didn't know if what I had just done had set him over the edge.

"Yea."

"May I read them?" I asked curiously.

He handed them over to me with ease. This is what I hate about poets. They are able to exploit themselves and their beautifully written tales with no shame. They are ruthless in that sense. They have no shame about what they write and who they have written about for they know how to play around with their words and make another human being become invested in their emotions. A beautiful way to persuade someone.

As I skimmed through all the poems I noticed that they all had one thing in common; they were all about a trapped girl. Someone who was in need of care. I don't dare to ask him who they were about but I loved them. They were beautifully written and came through as an unresolved conflict. I wonder if it was about someone he once knew? If the conflict he had written about is still unresolved?