One of the cold days of January, I was sitting alone at that local cafe where you used to eat because you’re too lazy to go far. The food was not even good, you’re just too lazy. You know, I tried hanging out there. Now I know why you’re always eating there. There were a lot of talented people around strumming their guitars. Even I loved it. I don’t know of the songs but it’s just so resemblant to you. I knew you loved the melody of the strings. You yourself was a master. But you’re different than the rest of them. You’re just uniquely adorable. Well, I’m not saying that they’re not adorable, it’s just that your adorableness gave stress to my adrenaline and produced butterflies in my stomach wanting to get out and spread the feeling of fantasy to every one. You played tunes fresh to my ears. You loved the Beatles, Otis Redding, and the indie sounds. I remembered you played one once to me or at least I thought it was for me.
It’s cold but I didn’t order coffee. The thought of you sitting here and listening to these live sounds made me feel warm. I imagined you wishing you’d brought your guitar and join this ensemble of strings. You’re somehow jealous because you need to get back to work. You’re eating but you’re so drowned with the melodies while half of your brain thought of, well, I really don’t know. You’re enjoying the moment. It made me happy.
I was reading something about how to improve writing and how set the scene for the readers and then this guy started strumming the strings of his guitar. Then the scene was set for me. It instantly reminded me of you. You ordered and ate and stared unintentionally at the lady across the room, she saw and awkwardly looked away. That was the first time we were both inside that cafe. I was happy.
Then the people started to quiet slowly until I was left alone again. The harmony that was shared earlier vanished. No more music from any guitars, no songs from the radio. It was just me and my writing. I was alone and somehow lonely because I remember you and you’re not here.