I sit alone in a café. I choose this seat specifically, to see.
I sitting here alone, surrounded by bodies, voices and laughter.
The man across the first, seated at a bench with his friend is searching for me (or she).
His eyes dart between me and she…
She, the blonde smoking directly in front of me.
Golden amber and chestnut,
we are different versions of the same story,
seated at secluded tables on a warm afternoon in Barcelona.
She sits alone, as I sit, in the same chair, at the same angle.
She writes in blue ink, I in black.
She drinks her coffee, I sip my tea.
She averts the eyes of the gypsies as quickly as I,
a simple “no.”
She hunches over her writing, looking up on occasion for the next word, the next thought or listening to the music of Catalonia.
Her silver bracelets answer my ringed fingers.
She is a warm, orange sunset to my cool, blue sky.
She reviews, revises and restores,
my impulsive pen races down the page without a second glance.
She smokes, I sip.
She sighs, I silent.
She reflects, I rest.
Is she as tired as I? Do her bones skin as deep into the chair?
The second cup of coffee floats her back up.
We are dancing with one another, with gravity and our selves.
We are alone and together in our solitude.
But she is completely alone…
As I remain invisible.