Weak Cappuccinos and Flowers.

By Miss Moo.

If he loved her unconditionally, would she still love him?

(He thought she would.)

She worked at the book shop. She wore a blue shirt and black pants. The shirt flaunted her eyes while the pants showed off her figure. She had hair too. It was blond and curly. She would wear it up as though she didn't care what anyone thought.

(But he knew she did. He saw the way she watched her reflection.)

He started coming to the bookshop every day. She only worked on Thursdays and Saturdays, but on rare occasions she would swap shifts with another girl, Olivia, and he didn't want to miss an opportunity to see her.

(He pretended to browse through the books for hours, just watching her face.)

For weeks she couldn't recognize him. He was just another customer. Then her brain remembered his image and she would smile at him the smallest smile. So small he was sure that no one else would ever notice it.

(It was their little secret.)


It was by accident that he found her favorite coffee shop. He had been walking past when he had seen the beautiful wisps of her hair. He ordered a skinny cappuccino (because that's what she was having) and used his spoon to eat the chocolate-dusted froth before drinking the coffee (he had seen her do the same). The coffee was weaker than he would usually drink, and he wondered why he had ignored this (clearly superior) beverage in the past.

(Because he didn't know her; that's why.)


"Are you stalking me?" She had asked him one day. He could barely make out her smile (but that's what made it special).

He smiled back at her, "You have beautiful eyes."

Said eyes turned nervously to her sneakers before flicking back up to meet his.

"You didn't answer my question."

He pondered his answer for a moment. He didn't know her name (nor her his), nor anything about her really, but you could scarcely call them strangers. Still, he didn't know enough about her to 'stalk' her. Rather, he became morbidly fascinated by everything he saw her doing.

So he answered; "Not really."

And she accepted that with another of their smiles.

(But you wouldn't know from looking.)


She ripped the sachet of sugar open without acknowledging at him.

She poured the sugar into her coffee.

She stirred it once, twice and thrice. She never glanced his way.

He sat across from her, staring intently, while she said nothing.

(But he was certain he heard all the words.)


One day she kissed him. It was awkward and stiff and almost threatening. He opened his lips against hers in an attempt to relax her, but she pulled away too quickly.

"There," she said, "Now you can leave me alone."

She turned with finality and pushed open the door to the bookshop.

He touched his lips gently, then ran his tongue over them to taste her once more.

(She was testing him.)


He tried to prove to her that it was more than physical.

He met her outside her work with weak cappuccinos and flowers. She brushed past him hastily.

(But she was wearing their smile.)


Days went by and he grew impatient.

"Why are you fighting this?" He demanded of her.

"Because there's nothing between us." She hissed back, her eyes darting nervously.

"Don't lie! I've seen the way you look at me. You have that smile."

Her eyes hardened and looked him dead on for once, "I don't know what's going on in that sick head of yours, but I do not smile at you."

She stormed off muttering something about a 'sick motherfucker'.

(And he believed her.)

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(This is another one of those cryptic pieces written after two in the morning. It will get one review (two if I'm lucky), but that reviewer won't really understand what my contention was. Then, a couple months in the future, I too will read this again. I won't really get it either, but I'll pretend to remember how I felt when I wrote it. Note to future self: I was tired.)