Life surprised me the day I met you.
I went to school grumpy that morning, as any Tuesday or Thursday mornings were, routinely complaining to the world why the hell did it create 7:30 classes and next, cursing myself to oblivion for not sleeping earlier. I entered the cafeteria with my one-track mind telling me to order the usual coffee I consume and to stay at one of the inconspicuous tables. Deeply sighing, I walked towards the refrigerator, got my drink of choice, paid the cashier, uttered "Good Morning!" to a passing colleague and quickly spotted a seat. As I daze through the whole process, I noticed for a second (or maybe 2?) that you ordered ham and cheese sandwich instead of your usual Champorado.
Wow, you broke your own rhythm, I wanted to tell you. Of the six days I saw you, this was the first time you had a different vibe; it seemed like the beats of your footsteps changed. You usually get in line next to me, that's why I observed that you have (well, had) a cycle too.
When I finally settled down at my place of the day, a strange urge made me look at the direction of the cashier. I pushed down the thoughts and the little gusto I felt, reminding myself that I am not a person who sneaks glances but makes contact.
Apparently, we're the same.
Exactly 2 minutes and 34 seconds after I convinced myself not to search for your familiar figure, I heard the quiet, clattering sound of the tray hitting my table. My head snapped at the direction of the noise, and there you are, smiling. You removed your earphones, and asked, "Mocha, again?"
