(Contiued)
"Yes, sure, go ahead."
He looks at me from the coffee, sitting in a booth chair, my height, with a glass table in front of him.
His appearance is very dominating, and his brown eyes are rimmed with a tired, but earned dignity. He has lines on his face from smiling and age, and he holds his coffee tightly with two hands, like he has been through recent stress.
The entire room is maroon ,tinted with sweet scents ofvanilla and red oak, emersing my customers and I with subtle romantic yearnings.
His lips are soft, his words flow out like softly pushed rose peddles.
His hair is brown and greying, and although there were dozens of customers with permanent neediness from me, he was the only one I now noticed.
"Could you bring me my sugar?"
"I already brought it to you sir."
"Oh, okay, I'm sorry."
"That's alright, don't worry about it."
People are so weird, he seemed so distracted by me.
He is squirming, he is a man- oh, 35 at least! And he seems to be enjoying more than his coffee. Maybe- the nice view out the window.
Or the soft cushion under his chair.