A WOMAN OF LETTERS

It’s too cold to sit outside and drink my coffee.

There are four armchairs–two facing two–in the corner of the Starbucks.

I sit in the one unoccupied chair.

In the other three chairs sit three women–none of whom knows the other two–and none of whom knows me.

Each woman in each of the two chairs facing mine is mindlessly texting on a goddamned smartphone.

But the woman sitting in the chair beside mine is doing something I haven’t seen anyone do in a very long time.  She is writing–with a pen–on paper.

Unlike the other two women, this woman acknowledges my existence–though she maintains focus on her writing.

She writes on a small writing tablet, or small notebook she holds on her lap. Her legs are crossed.

She’s writing a letter, or a poem, or a narrative.  But she’s definitely not writing for work or school.

At least twice, she tears a page from the tablet or notebook, crumples it, places it on the end table between my chair and hers–then starts over.

And her handwriting is beautiful.

And she is beautiful.

And oh God, I desire her–more than she will ever know.

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