They were like Romeo and Juliet, only he was fairly sure Romeo was better looking than him, and Nurse would have killed Juliet if she'd worn such short skirts.
They were like Bonnie and Clyde, only they stole kisses in a janitor's closet instead of money from a bank, and neither of them had a tenth of those steel nerves.
They were like Marc Antony and Cleopatra, only he was more like a court jester than an emperor and she loved herself too much to commit suicide.
They were like Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, only Elizabeth didn't obsess over fitting in like she did, and Mr. Darcy had a way with words he never would.
They were like Tristan and Isolde, only she was too glamorous for the eleventh century and swears Ireland is full of European bumpkins anyway, and he was too cowardly to be the knight in shining armor of the myth.
They were like da Vinci and the mysterious Mona Lisa, only he had never touched a paintbrush in his life and God knows nobody ever had a reason to paint her.
They were like Troy and Gabriella (which he swore he had not seen), only she couldn't sing worth crap and the idea of him as a jock was downright laughable.
They were like Bella and Edward (which he swore he had not read), only she was the one with the sparkling, glittery reputation, and he was the one who desperately wanted a part of her word.
There was nothing ridiculous in the comparison; on one day or another, they were all of those things. Only sometimes they weren't. Like when she dragged him into a closet, made out until the bell rang, and then forced him to stay there for at least ten minutes after she left so no one saw. Or when she slapped him if he tried to hold her hand when she thought people were around. But he needed her. And forbidden love was even more romantic. Like Romeo and Juliet.
Right?
Except when they came to the coffeehouse.
It was small, usually not crowded at the time of night they came. He was usually already through buying, waiting for her with his chai tea latte in hand. He would watch her strut up to the front of the line no matter how many people were there, order her no-fat skinny vanilla frapuccino. And when she sat down, he was allowed to tuck her hair behind her ear for her, and she actually laughed at his jokes. But most of the time they didn't really talk, just were, in this tiny, Old-World coffeehouse. Something about the age-stained wood tables and the rich, thick scent of ground coffee beans made him feel just a little braver, and her just a little sweeter. It wasn't the kind of heart-pounding rush of kisses in closets and corners; it was touching fingertips in a way that was almost tender, in a way that wasn't Romeo and Juliet, or Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, or even Bella and Edward (which he still had not read). It was their way, cautiously affectionate, hesitantly sweet. In that place, they didn't have to be anyone else. There was no measuring up, no reputations to uphold, no masks, no lies, no underlying self-preservation.
In that old coffeehouse, there was simply them. Trina and Robbie. Together.