The Static Between Us

He always chooses the table by the window, doesn’t he?
As if drawn to a specific kind of light. Or maybe it's me—he sees me reflected there.
I watch him order his coffee, black, no sugar, and I invent stories about why he prefers it that way. A man who embraces bitterness? One who needs clarity? It’s silly, really, this quiet game we play.
The café is a neutral space, perfect for observation. He catches my gaze sometimes and holds it—a beat too long, a little too intensely—and the static between us feels almost tangible.
Today he's wearing a charcoal grey coat, which does things to his shoulders…distracts me from the rain outside. I need to focus on finishing this report, but how can I when my mind is composing sonnets about the way he folds his newspaper?
I wonder if he knows that every time our eyes meet, it feels like a dare.
A silent question hanging in the air: *What if?*

Editor: Danger Zone