He was sitting there with a blank look and a hand on his face, staring out the window, seeming to scream, "I'm so bored, I should dump this disgusting coffee on my lap". He looked nothing like a coffee shop writer, the first thing that had aroused my interest. His clothes were clean, not fancy or designer, but unique. A strand of dark brown hair was wrapped around his finger, twirling it around, then releasing, twirling it, releasing; it seemed to be an unconscious act. I wanted to approach him, break his boredom and frustration, and maybe, just maybe, I'd be the catalyst for his creativity. But no, even with twenty ounces of the finest espresso pumping through me, I was shaking, and not from the caffeine. I took a deep breath. No, I told myself today was the day, I'm doing this. I pushed my chair back slowly, as to not draw attention to myself, and stood. He blinked; his eyes turned and met mine. I couldn't breathe. His eyes pierced through me like so many knives. A small smile came over his lips and I melted, but held strong in my liquefied state, and begun my walk. As I reached him, however, his eyes were already on his computer screen and fingers were flying. I sighed softly, cursing in my head, I'm such a fool. As I passed him, I couldn't help but turn and glance at the words on his screen:

"She was captivated by his presence, little did she know, he was, as well."