DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.
~ COFFEE ~
He stands across from a large office building – her building. He observes it from a safe distance, hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, the noises of the city swirling around him. He looks like a man keeping some sort of strange vigil. The fingers of his right hand are curled into a ball, and in their soft grasp hides one of his most valuable possessions: a small slip of crumpled paper. Kalinda's handwriting has faded somewhat from the frequent folding-and-unfolding routine of his chronic indecisiveness but it's still legible.
He had asked her to find an address and she came back with two. "Just in case," she told him. There was a strange edge in her voice and a blank expression on her face. "In case what?" he asked, brows knitted together, as hungry brown eyes drank in the blue strings of words and numbers. But when he glanced up for the answer, he found himself alone in his office.
He is at the first address, the one he asked for – a seemingly dull block of glass and steel in the busy heart of the capital. He itches to go inside. He could easily come up with several perfectly believable excuses to be in that office. Once inside, it would be only a matter of time before he bumped into the real reason. A faint smile quirks his lips at the thought but Reason is quick to tame it back into a straight line. Get a grip. He checks his watch. It's lunchtime. She is bound to walk through that door any second now anyway. He stays put but his mind races on.
Being here is probably courting disaster, and part of him knows he should leave but that's not the part in control now. It hasn't been for a while. What if she won't be alone? She probably won't. Conflicting thoughts and painful images flash through his mind but an uncertain defiance stemming from some ridiculous, desperate need keeps him glued to this spot.
He really does hate himself sometimes.
He continues scanning the sea of people flowing in and out of the building, both hoping and dreading to catch a glimpse of one face in particular. Soon a loud thunder snaps him out of his silent observance. He glances up at the darkening sky with a shadow of a wry smile. The electricity of an approaching storm spikes the air and the wind picks up, carrying dried leaves and the smell of rain. He takes a deep breath and his vision drifts back on the entrance. Still no sign of her.
Suddenly a disturbing thought crosses his mind. You are stalking her. He takes a breath, wrestling with himself, then exhales loudly. No. He just wants to see her, make sure she's okay. Maybe have a cup of coffee. That's all. He came to D.C. to charm a potential campaign donor and he has some time to kill before the meeting. What's wrong with using it to check up on a friend he hasn't seen in a while? Nothing... if she were a friend. His jaw clenches and he pushes that last thought away.
The first drops of rain force him to look around for a suitable shelter – anything but the building he's been so keenly observing for the last 30 minutes or so. Soon his gaze locks on a smallish Italian coffee house nearby. After a few more seconds and yet another loud thunder, his legs finally obey. They move off the pavement and carry him swiftly across the street into the cosy embrace of mingled conversations and the smell of freshly made coffee.
It doesn't take much time before he resumes his observer status but now he has a comfortable seat with a great view of the place and a cup of hot coffee in an actual cup. His briefcase and neatly folded overcoat are resting on a chair by his side like two trusty companions, and his tie hangs a bit more loosely around his neck. He's relaxed. He takes a sip, savoring the taste, as his eyes sweep the surroundings. It's busy but not too noisy. Rather small but not suffocating. Friendly, yet elegant. It uses every square inch of available space. Practical. Neat. Efficient. He loves it.
The door opens and closes almost every 10 seconds now. People are fleeing inside from the heavy rain. A couple enters and the young man shakes water from his hair. The young woman holds her hand up to shield herself and laughs – a sound vaguely familiar but not yet recognized by the man enjoying his coffee merely 10 feet away from them.
He stares into the sugary blackness of his cup, then glances up and the sweet taste in his mouth is instantly replaced by a bitter realization: It's her and she isn't alone. He can't look away. He sits – statue-like and helpless –, trying to digest the painful sight as the pair walks away in the opposite direction to find a place to sit. She didn't notice him. He feels relieved, then slightly disappointed. He gets fidgety and shifts on the chair, calculating. Should he get up and say hello? He doesn't. He can't do it. He can't even try to pretend to be an approving part of this. He would probably choke on the lies the way he almost did when he first met her.
He tears his gaze away from them and stares out the window to watch the rainy city pass by. People and cars move up and down the street outside – completely unseen. A slight frown lingers on his face and thoughts crash in his head. He's trying not to be so affected by all this – "trying" being the operative word –, but he feels tense, weird, and borderline devastated. It's ridiculous but he just can't seem to shake it. It must be the exhaustion getting to him. Yes, that's it. Satisfied with his diagnosis, he looks over at the couple one more time and it feels like a particularly stinging slap in the face – forceful enough to make a dent in denial.
Her annoyingly well-groomed and nauseatingly good-mannered friend gently touches the small of her back to guide her toward her seat. His hand then glides up and comes to rest on her right shoulder, squeezing it gently. And the man witnessing it adjusts his tie and runs his fingers through his hair. The implications of this intimacy are just too painful for him to ponder. He closes his eyes and his grip on the cup tightens but that's all he does. That's probably all he can do. His eyes blink open. She is still there, still not alone. The young man leans closer, whispers something to her from behind and they laugh. Again. And the man is struggling quietly, trying his best to overcome the pain that's twisting his insides with unexpected and frightening strength.
He is just overworked. Stressed-out. Sleep-deprived. Jealous.
His grip loosens on the cup and it slightly tilts toward him. The coffee he's already forgotten spills on his chest and it jolts him out of his misery. He scrambles to his feet, almost knocking over his chair in the process. Some of the guests sitting nearby look oddly at him and the young man's gaze also shifts in his direction. For a brief moment they lock eyes. He deems that more than enough, puts down the cup with a bit more force than necessary and reaches for a napkin to dab at the wet brown stain on his favorite tie. It doesn't help much and his pain is now laced with mute anger. The spilt coffee has already soaked through his shirt. He can feel its damp coldness clinging to his skin.
Perfect.
He sneaks a look at her – still smiling, still blissfully unaware of him. Good. Better pray it remains that way. He does.
He saw her. She looks fine. She looks happy. He's had his coffee. None of it happened exactly how he expected it but it's time to go.
For the first time today he gives in to that annoying little voice that sometimes reminds him so much of his ex-wife, and goes to flee mode. A coffee-stained napkin lands next to the treacherous cup, then his briefcase and overcoat are lifted from the chair. He starts toward the door but gets halted when the coat gets caught. He wrestles it free, stumbles, and bumps into a table. Cups, saucers, and spoons clink loudly in protest at the contact and he bites back a cry. How a small round table can cause so much pain he couldn't tell but his vision blurs a little – both from the pain and from the effort of keeping himself from cursing the vicious piece of furniture and this wretched coffee house into oblivion. He collects himself, forces a smile on his face and apologizes to the elderly couple sitting there, then turns and sidesteps a little boy just in time – only to collide with a woman.
Did somebody shrink this place and put in extra furniture when he wasn't looking?
Instead of sneaking out gracefully, he's dancing a bizarre and utterly humiliating dance in this maze of misery with brief intervals of mumbled apologies. Some crisis manager you are. He doesn't even dare glance in her direction anymore as he dashes through the door into the pouring rain.
If he had looked, he would have seen her staring at him. He would have seen the recognition, confusion, and emotion washing over her face.
