From: Greg Thorpe
To: Leticia Reynolds
I had been waiting for long enough that the ice in my coffee had melted, topping my drink up by the amount I had already consumed – around thirty milliliters – and cleverly hiding the fact that I preferred to be half an hour early rather than on time. The condensation coalesced on my plastic cup and slid down its length, reminding me that any minute you would appear, your downcast eyes always in search of somewhere innocuous to land, probably starting with my coffee, inspecting the infusion of slow-roasted arabica beans with a dash of milk and, by that point in the cafe sojourn, the by-products of dissolved ice cubes.
Your form materialized on the other side of the street, slow steps weaving around other pedestrians equally frazzled by the rain, umbrellas being whipped from weak grips, grips that couldn’t hold on to what was dear no matter how hard they struggled, grips belonging to weak-willed people who had long since given up on attaining what should be theirs or reaching for something they could only fathom… Read the rest of this entry »