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At The Café
A few strands fall on her eyes,
She sweeps them away in a hesitant fashion.
I look at her from the other end of the cafe and smile,
Her pencil falls down and she bends to pick it up from the white gleaming floor.
They fall again and I smile.
She takes out her sketchpad and begins working,
Her fingers moving steadily on the piece of paper that lies on the coffee stained table.
I take a sip from mine and savour its taste.
While she continues to work in haste.
I take one last swig and make my way to the counter,
Paying my check.
And then purposely walk by her table, to see what she’s trying so hard to describe.
I stop abruptly behind her chair and catch my reflection on the stained glass and
On the bottom of the paper she signs, as I pass.
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