Encounter

I saw you once.

At Starbucks.

You were staring down at your phone, held tightly in your hand, as you waited for your coffee. And I all dressed in black, observed you behind sunglasses and mentally laughed at the situation. At the ease with which I could walk right up to you if I so desired.

It would be fun to see your face.

I imagined a dozen ways that you'd react, two dozen things you might say, three dozen ways you'd end the curt exchange in an attempt to get away.

Or maybe you wouldn't run. Maybe you'd stay.

I wonder what I myself might say.

"Hi, nice to see you, it's been a while." I certainly wouldn't say that I've missed you. I'd probably remark on your appearance and make light of the situation. It would be fascinating to hear what you'd say about mine.

Hair straight, an Estee Lauder face, the nicest purse I've ever owned, a sleek black trench coat that feels like silk to the touch, a chenille scarf loyally wrapped around my neck, leather gloves peeking out of my coat pocket, feeling like a million dollars with the electric blue mustang parked out front.

I felt like a fire trying to contain itself. I couldn't gague my reactions around you, so found it better to just stay away, observe you from the side lines. The wait was long. I had ample time to change my mind.

You looked tired, older, unsuspecting. And I couldn't peel the smile off my lips at the idea of how surprised I could make you, how I could change that face if I wanted; lift the sleepiness from your eyes and make them glow like mine.

I had always imagined what we'd be like in an encounter. How easy it would be to transfer the heat that burned inside of me to you. It would be like a flame licking the ice. I would make you melt and force you to wish to freeze again so that you could be melted once more.

I would be in control. Just as I was when quietly observing you.

But what good would it do to addict you to me?

None I suppose.

They called your name.

You looked up from your phone and reached out to take the coffee. I slinked to the side, turned as you turned, feigned to grasp a stirrer for a coffee I didn't yet have. And you brushed past me. Out the door, into the frigid air, you strode right by my car that you had no idea was mine.

"Liz," the barista shouted.

My coffee was ready.

I popped off the lid and looked down at the smoldering brown liquid, steam pouring from it's surface, and despite it's searing temperature, it didn't burn half as dark or hot as I.