It’s Sunday, and I sit here and you sit there, me with coffee and you with tea.
You look like you’re comfortable, and I’m only comfortable in that I like how I look.
My name is unimportant, and yours is Rick, but the lady who calls the names always calls you Ricky - I wonder about that sometimes.

And on Monday you get out your work portfolio and draw a face, a beautiful lady. I want to tell you that you are an amazing artist. I want to ask you who she was, but I have a feeling you won’t tell me.
You never even glance at me, and I must act as if possessed.

On Tuesday I notice that you like the color blue, so much that you only buy blue ties.
And also on Tuesday I notice that something is wrong, because you’re hiding your eyes behind aviators and in your ears flow the uneven banging of hard rock. There aren’t any words that I can hear, even the music is very loud. And a man behind me mutters something about irresponsible, annoying kids these days.

On Wednesday, you’re back to normal sipping green tea, probably wondering about the health benefits. And I can’t help but wish that I could talk to you, talk to you as more than a friend, because even though I just moved here this weekend and started coming to this coffee shop, you’ve probably been coming here for ages. And I notice that you only wear brown leather work shoes, not black... just brown.

On Thursday, you’re mad, and you order you tea and leave in a hurry, and there isn’t anything to notice about you, not even the fact that you have lovely dimples when you grimace.

And on Friday, you’re smiling and happy looking like brand new. And I look jealous, and wish I was, too. As I get in line, right behind you, I’m thinking of my favorite song, and you’re probably thinking,
Meg, hurry it along. Because on Friday we get Meg as the server, and she’s always slow, and I wish she’d get fired, so you wouldn’t worry so.

On Saturday, your late and I wish I could’ve seen you a little longer, but I had to leave.
And as I pass you in the street, getting out of your car, I suddenly am aware of the most important thing, on your left hand is a ring.

It’s Sunday, and I sit in a pancake house, empty because who wants to eat out in this small god-forsaken town. And I’m mad at you because I didn’t know you were married, I noticed every else except that one thing. And then I feel ashamed, because this is your life, and you don’t even know me, and I just another person passing you in the street.

I hate coffee houses. I hate Sundays, I hate every day of the week. I moved here so I would forget James, even that was years ago, and now I think I will move again, because I’m bound to run into you sometime, in this small 3-store, god-forsaken town.