Clouds in my Coffee

He sat in the banquette nursing drip coffee, adding cream occasionally and humming Carly Simon as it hit the surface. Then, glancing over his screen, he noticed her.

She walked, no, she floated across the room. In a blue summer dress, old-fashioned pearls, and a white leather purse on her shoulder. He hated small-talk introductions. He’d formulate one in his head, then erased them with self doubt. He tried not to stare.

She ordered, in a surprisingly bass male voice, “Softboiled egg and toast. Thank you, darling.”

Looking up again, suddenly, she was gone. He’d lost his opportunity.  Then the waiter came by. “This is for you,” he said, placing a napkin on the table.

Written in perfect artful handwriting, “You’re cute. Perhaps breakfast here together sometime? We’re often here at the same time. When you smile, you light this whole dump up. I’m Margie. 415-555-5555.″