It was Monday. A day where most wallowed in their misery, complaining about the resetting of a monotonous work schedule; I awake with nothing but anticipation for tonight's festivities. The thought of melting my stress away under a Brooklyn sunset still gave me chills. It all started two weeks ago when I first walked into this hidden gem of a rooftop. The people were all beautiful, and red cups wrapped in multicolored fingers conquered my peripheral. The music, audible but delicate, vibrates the soles of my shoes with every lick of the bass. I had heard about places like this, but being relatively new to the area, had no idea where to look. That's where she came in.
She had become a regular at the coffee shop. In a neighborhood showcasing a variety of brews, the dark hardwood floor and antique seating must have drawn her in. I found myself memorizing each one of her orders, hoping for the day she'd look to me and say "give me the usual." It wasn't enough to simply serve her. She had to taste my worship in the foam of her latte; in the crumb of her cupcake. I had to take my time with every aspect, the same way I had longed to do with her.
She sat three rows from center stage... Faces blur from city to city, but I swear I've seen her before. A million miles on the road couldn't counter the fluster that consumes me when we lock eyes. Where is this coming from? A lifetime of brunettes and redheads, and this bleach blonde beauty is working me like a snake charmer, elevating the acoustic guitar that rests on my lap, as the blood in my body finds a throbbing home underneath my pants.