Soul Cafe

She sat on the next table. Appeared to be in mid thirties. Her skin was dry, almost grainy. I imagined. I would see her, why not. If we met on Tinder, on whatever. She's the ripe age for a woman to be. She must be married though, I deduced from the bits of her conversation with her friend which I overheard.

Both their bags were placed on the table. At the exact center of the table was an ash tray. I stole glimpses. At them. Her friend was quietly the prettier of them both. And better dressed, probably. But this woman, whose only half face I could see, looked like the most engrossed human. She was perhaps reading something on her phone. From the way her eyes moved, I surmised she wasn't whiling away time on some social media. She was reading a story, definitely. From the waves of lust arising in her eyes, I imagined it was an erotic story.

So I was sitting next to a woman in a grey sweater who must have been heaving up and down with libido, in a cafe by a lake whose dark waters had recently become my muse. If her friend went to the ladies room, I would get a better view of her. Her face. Half wavy half straight hair, dusky complexion, mildly erased kohl, remains of a tired Friday on her face, and everything else.

May be I would also walk up to her and ask her name. I think she's called Toshi. No I haven't overheard that. But she looks like it.

Now she's smoking. Twirls of smoke rapidly leaving her mouth. Oh she's praising the coffee. It's the best coffee she's had in weeks. With the backdrop of the lake and the music that's playing, she looks semi ethereal.

Like she's dissolving into time and space, slowly. Merging with the dark waters of the lake behind her. In a few hours, her friend would be found sitting there alone.