A Table for One

Intriguing young woman. Contently staring at the book, charmed by the written word, cast a spell upon may be. Thoughts fixed, or moving you couldn't say. You couldn't say a thing about her for sure, hence the intrigue. Hair clutched into a loose bunch at the back, strands of it falling apart, being repeatedly tucked behind her ears like being disciplined. Is that some kind of a style? You couldn't say. Cheek bones meet to form a rather pointed chin, like a perfect triangular vertex, a face not too small not too large, somewhere in between. And I haven't seen her eyes yet, I have to keep looking some place else, staring at her with that devoted a constancy would arouse suspicion, wouldn't it. Now she is looking up from the book, and I have to pick something else to look at, momentarily though, oh, and is that a smile I gather from my peripheral view. Is she going to smile at me and say hi? Rather not, she is smiling at the waiter and asking for another cup of chai. And, by the way, eyes, pretty mundane though, I imagine would be as much drunken and intoxicating over an intimate conversation about life et cetera.  Ain't I thinking too much. Being carried away by the intrigue.

This is a book store, overlooking the highway, with walls of glass. And this is being written as it is happening, like being broadcasted live. The more enticing combo is that of literature and some thought inducing beverage. You know how it works. Half the time you scan the book shelves standing in narrow aisles not knowing what is it that you're looking for, but basically shortlisting the books you could glance through later when you're sipping the not so sugary chai. But the problem with the inbuilt tea shop was that there weren't enough tables. And there was this table for two with this personification of intrigue seated, busily purring over a book whose name I couldn't read out from that distance. So I took that excuse to tread closer and immediately took the vacant chair. It must have given her quite a jig, the ones that strangers give. But she hadn't cared to look up. Now I make out the book is called May you be the mother of a hundred sons. Non fiction, oh!

This is the weirdest thing you would expect, wouldn't you. Sitting with a stranger in a cafe more familiar, whiling away an afternoon, staring at the cars zooming past on the highway, uncaring, unstopping. The stranger, who has now run me out on intrigue, curiosity, sex appeal, and even on blah, has switched books, has picked up one of those written by an enlightened newbie, an aspirant is she. I cannot ask her what she is reading. On another thought, shouldn't I stop jumping to conclusions about her and wonder why these cafes do not have A Table for One.