Is This Seat Taken 1

It's the coffee shop we all go to but half of us lie and say we don't. The Stevie Nicks Christmas album sounding awful over the speakers and looking even less attractive for sale at the counter for $14.95. The music and the general vibe of the place wouldn't bother me as much if I didn't have work to do. I'd much prefer to write outside or go to a library or anywhere else but here but it's Winter in a Northern City and the wind is blowing snow and sleet sideways. It blew me into this place. It blows.

It seems to be students mostly. A few vagrants. Some women talking too loudly, lamenting the fact it's too early for wine. Plenty of people and not much seating. But there in the front, near the fake fireplace and the foggy window, is a large booth with one person in it. Who is this monster?

I stand over her- eyes locked onto her laptop, cute over-the-ear headphones playing something undoubtedly better than Stevie singing 'Little Drummer Boy.' Her white skin a perfect contrast to her long brunette hair. She's dressed well, like she knows how to look good but doesn't have to try too hard. It's beauty. It's effortless. It's mildly intimidating and now I'm standing over her without a real plan of how I'm going to ask to share the booth.

The best I can come up with is waving my hand between her eyes and the screen, breaking the concentration. She looks up, jarred, concerned.

"Can I help you? What's going on?"

"Sorry but this place is packed. I really need to get some work done and this looks like the only spot available. Would you mind?" I motion toward the open bench in front of her.

"Oh. Um. Sure? Yeah that's fine. I'm just staying out of the mess for now. You sound busy so I won't bug you. Go ahead."

It should be slowing down but the wind seems to be getting more intense. Sleet hits the glass next to us, making a crashing sound as I take the seat across from her. "Yeah, I wouldn't recommend going out in that."

"Oh, so you're a weather man. That's very important work. Shouldn't you be in a studio somewhere instead of hanging out at a coffee shop?"

I look up and smile, cough slightly on my drink. Beauty and banter. What are the odds of that? I tell myself not to get too excited. She's at least ten years younger than me. Just play along for a moment then get back to work.

"That's the thing- darn storm knocked the power out at the office. All of us were sent scrambling. Now I have to send out all the updates from this here coffee shop. And by letting me share your booth, you're basically saving lives. So thank you..."

"Isabel."

Now that's a name. "Isabel. Yes. Thank you, Isabel."

"You're welcome..."

"Daniel."

"You're very welcome, Daniel. My handsome weather man booth neighbor."

Even the slightest compliment sends me into a blushing fit. A compliment from a beautiful stranger has me concerned that my breathing may become short. I already feel my heart missing important beats. I need water but I settle for another sip of coffee.

"All jokes aside- what are you working on, weather man?"

Always the most awkward explanation. It leads to so many other questions that I never feel comfortable answering. Yes, I write fiction. No, you've never read me. Yes, I've been published. No, I can't tell you what I'm working on. Yes, I'd rather die than talk about it anymore. No, you have nothing to be sorry about, I'm just incredibly insecure. I take the cowards way out.

"A project."

She closes her laptop and slips the headphones into her bag. The promise of leaving me alone made just moments ago seems destined to be unfulfilled. No complaints though. She's worth talking to. Worth putting everything else on hold.

"Ooooh. Intriguing. What kind of project?"

"Top secret."

"A writer."

I look up at her with laser eyes. Was I that obvious? Such a fucking stereotype that a stranger knows my life story after the weakest of interrogations?

"Not right now, I'm not. Right now I'm a coffee drinker and a conversationalist."

"Don't make up words. That's unprofessional." She's giving me eyes. Staring right at me. Playing coy with her mouth hiding behind her coffee cup. I can still see her smile. It's a good one.

A great one.

My laptop hasn't even made it out of my backpack and I'm starting to hope it never does. I break eye contact and smile, look down at the coffee.

"What about you? Do you go to school around here?"

She rolls her eyes and puts down her cup.

"We're at risk of falling into the pit of tedious conversation. Get us out of it. Ask me a different question."

"What kind of question?"

"Anything. Something interesting."

"What made you call me handsome?"

"You are handsome. I was giving you a complement. Did it make you uncomfortable?"

Yes. Incredibly. But also incredibly awake. Alive.

"No, not really. It's just, we're strangers and..."

"My turn. How old do you think I am?"

"I would never guess. I can't.."

"Guess or I'll walk out the door and you'll never know how the rest of this day could have turned out."

"Twenty-one."

A fair guess. Safe guess. Legal guess. Honestly, she could be 20 and she could be 27. I'm not good at this anymore.

"Close. How old are you?"

"What does close mea-"

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-seven."

"Interesting."

"Why do you say that?"

"I would have guessed younger but thirty seven is better."

"You like men my age?"

"Not sure."

"You'd like me."

"Is that a fact, weather man?"

"It's a guarantee."

The power dynamic flows between us like a ball being pushed on the top of the water. One person holds it for a moment then sends it back to the partner with a purposeful, pointed push. Sending it right where it needs to go. Trusting they know what to do with it next.

"I like the sound of that, Daniel. Another question. please."

"I believe it's your turn, Isabel."

"We really aren't taking turns but that's fine. We can do that."

She pauses for a minute, wiping fog off the window, looking into the darkening afternoon. Still no signs of slowing down.

"It's pretty cold over here. Would you come over to this side and sit next to me?"

I don't answer. I stand and slide in next to her. Unafraid to touch my hip to hers even though we haven't even shaken hands or shared a polite hug. She looks over at me then touches her cup to mine as if to say 'cheers.' 'Good job, old man.' 'I knew you had it in you.'

"It's colder on this side. How would you feel if I put my arm around you? You know, to keep you warm."

She laughs and leans her body into mine, signalling that it's ok. It's wanted. There's an instant trust that has developed as a side effect of instant attraction. Instant desire.

"So is this, like, your thing? Finding lonely young girls in coffee shops and seducing them with your dad bod and writer schtick?"

"Not at all. Usually it's playgrounds."

"Such a creep." Her hand slides over his thigh, slowly, firmly rubbing his leg back and forth.

"If you only knew." His fingers caress her side. Moving from her hip to her stomach in slow little gentle circles.

We let it happen this way for a while. Letting our bodies get to know one another in silence. Knowing other people must be looking, wondering what the fuck is going on in the booth by the fake fire place. It's not like we've been whispering, either. It's been normal conversation level if not slightly elevated to combat the onslaught of terrible chain coffee shop soundtrack.

"So where are we going?" she asks, as if they're a couple on vacation who made a decision to not live by an itinerary.

"I like it right here," he says, hooking two fingers into the top of her jeans, running them back and forth before playing with the button in the front.

"Here is good but here has it's limitations, Daniel," her hand moves upward and finds the full-grown head rising at mid thigh.

"And we don't like limitations, do we?"