mystery person- writing exercise

I have seen you before, too many times to count, but we have never said a word to each other or shared a smile.

I know you must have noticed me, too. We have passed many times, except for recently. I have not seen you around the places I still frequent and you do not.

Where have you gone?



I do not see you in the cafe anymore in the early morning, just minutes after it has opened and all the tables are clean, and the only sound is the muffled chattering of the workers behind the counter. we both know this time of the morning is holy. The day feels clean. The drugdery of errands and shift work has not arrived yet. The sun is bright in the windows and we both prefer to claim the table in the corner, where the light does not penetrate so brightly. That is how I first noticed you, sitting at my table one morning sipping a cup of coffee and writing in your journal.



Now when I arrive just after 7am, the table is empty, waiting only for me.



You wear worn jeans, skirts with leggings, khakis with pleats down the middle. You pants are always a little short. You are a tall woman. You sweaters are colorful, your scarves woven in south america I imagine. You where sunglasses with white rims, and your hair is always in a bun at the peak of your head. I imagine you keep it unwashed for days, too concerned with what you are writing to concern yourself with mundane daily tasks.



you are simple. Your face is white and plain. You wear no makeup, just earrings and a barrette sometimes to keep a strand of hair out of your eyes. you are startling beautiful to me and you drink your coffee black. I imagine you awake at dawn, read scripture, stretch, put on soft clothing waiting for you folded on a chair. You perform tasks with ease, never rushing, feeling what time it is by the environment of the cafe and the quality of light coming in the full length windows. Before ten every morning you gather up your books in your satchel and ride away on your bicycle.



I've seen you other places, too. You get carry out Thai food, and buy plums and mint gum at the grocery store. I've seen you sipping a beer with a friend downtown. You are talking to your friend like he is the only one who exists at the bar. You are whispering in his ear, and he is whispering back because it is drowningly loud.



I imagine you slipping into cool sheets at night. Your bedroom painted sage green, and the trim painted lavender. You have a music box on your dresser and a wooden comb. Everything in your house is made out of worn wood, except for your bed which is a modest futon with a white, down filled comforter.



You have friends over seldomly. When it is, it is a girlfriend over for tea, or a beer at the pizza place around the corner. I imagine you'd have quiet time for me. I would sit and watch you, or sit and close my eyes and imagine myself as becoming part of your space.



For now, I seem to have fallen out of your orbit. I still carry the same routine. I arrive early at the cafe and order my coffee with cream and sugar. I sit at our table and wait for you to reappear, you walk casually in, order your coffee and begin your day.