The way she is aware of every part of her, every tiny nudge of movement she makes, is enigmatic and inviting all the same. I try my best to lift my gaze elsewhere, but it’s fixated on her.
She knows it, i’m sure. She’s aware of that strand of hair that falls like a curtain over her cheeks – flushed with a shy hint of pink. She brushes the prodigal hair back to where it belongs, but not in a swift motion. Instead, in a graceful whip of her fingers. There’s nothing idle about the way she is tracing the lip of her cup of coffee, too. She stops momentarily as if contemplating the sentence she just read from her book. Like she had just read the climactic twist – her eyes widening in interest. Her feet are lightly tapping the ground, as if to some musical beat in her mental playlist. I casually wonder what songs she might like.
“This is all a part of some conscious choreography,” I thought. And that’s when she looked right at me, as if my thoughts suddenly became audible to her. She held her gaze for a few heart-stopping seconds and then looked away.It was like driving under a tunnel – unconsciously, I held my breath.
For the next five minutes, I cannoned into a grueling mental debate with myself whether I should take the seat next to her and do what I know best: Awkward Small Talk. Maybe she’ll find it endearing, or otherwise think I’m a creep. But then I decided to tuck my pride away and just walk over to her. So I swallow a thick gulp of my pride, and make my way to her – coming up with all kinds of permutations of “Hey, is this seat taken?”. For a split second, I thought about taking a comedic approach – Joey Tribbiani from Friends style: “How You Doin?” but I had coffee, not tequila so that might as well have ended in a wreck.
I felt like a walking cliche from some rom-com movie, but what the hell.I clear my throat and tap her lightly on her shoulder. She smiles.
Conscious choreography, I tell you.