Monday, January 4, 2016

I Fell In Love With The Boy In The Coffee Shop

No, it's not what you think.

It wasn't some random stranger, a fated young man on the far side of the cafe, our eyes meeting and lingering as I sit there in the corner of my booth, book in hand and the sweet aroma of brewing beans in the air. No, I don't turn my eyes away, my cheeks burning, half expecting him to get up and walk over to me until he finally does. He doesn't slide over, charm me with his smile, and strike up a conversation that will forever be immortalized and hailed as the most romantic conversation in the annals of history. No, I don't smile and he doesn't smile and we don't decide right then and there that this is it, the thing most people spend their whole lives searching for, rare and unadulterated and pure, the white-hot fire of raw love burning deep inside our hearts and threatening to consume us completely.

No, it was nothing like that.

But there was a young man. There was a lingering of eyes, a runaway fire, a coy smile, a spark.

There was a coffee shop.

And I fell in love.


A secret meeting in a bookstore, when he called me and I turned around to see him. To this day, I still keep turning around for him, seeing his face light up and feeling my heart skip a beat. A trip to the comic book store. Some embarrassing geekiness. The realization that we are kindred spirits—broken and found and pieced together—and despite taking forever, our time has finally come.


Falling in love is nothing grand.

On that first date, it's the twitch in the corner of his lips, a hint of a smile. It's him leading me across the coffee shop, the touch of his fingers on the small of my back—light, unsure, afraid. It's the endless stories we shared and the beauty of our silence, nodding our heads and feeling like we understood each other even though no words were said. It's him leaning forward on the table across from me, eager to hear everything. It's the wave goodbye, the promise of another meeting, the giddiness that reached up to our eyes. It's the way I bit my lip, my heart racing, thoughts of dancing in my room and me gazing out the car window on the way home.

I was twenty-three, and there I was, in a cheesy Taylor Swift song, one that I never wanted to stop. I’ve had my share of heartaches, but her song was right: on a Wednesday, in a cafe, I watched love begin again.


It’s been five years. Now I'm lying in bed in the dark, listening to the soft rise and fall of my husband's chest, my hand over his heart, his hand over mine. I can still see the hint of a smile on the corner of his lips, the same one that captivated me all those years ago. I can still feel the spark in his touch, the gentleness in his fingers. I can still see him, that shy stance and those hopeful eyes, as clear as the day we first met.

He is still that same boy in the coffee shop.

And every day, I fall in love with him.

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