Montreal Man

You looked upon arrival.
Towards me, sitting quietly.
Nervously feeding baby with one hand, dreaming with the other.

You wore a scarf.
Our tables facing each other.
Two empty tables between us.
Space filling with imaginations.
Eyes wandering towards me.
Towards you.

Your scarf wrapped just so.
Around this neck meant for other things.
Is he playing with me, this man whom I see?

No such man sees the invisible one, alone with child.
Unbearable this dream.
Teasing. Feeding the desire, I look back.
It’s real. Unimagined.

They rise to leave. All of them.
You too.
While paying your eyes turn back.
As if entertaining the idea of speaking with the brunette alone with child.
Drinking chai. Feeding soup.

My heart sinks. You leave behind doors that block out the cold.
The chimes on the door rings, signifying your departure.
I remain.
With imagined dreams, disappointing realities.

A twist of fate, you return. Everything skips a beat. Hope glimmers. Alone this time. The others huddled outside in the sharp cold. Waiting for you.

A forgotten scarf on the table.

Looking directly at you now. This is real. Not imagined.
Come closer, please. Speak. Make this not a dream.
Sending smoke signals messages lost in the ephemeral.

There’s a smile.
Imagined?
Could very well be.
Nervousness blushes my already red cheeks. Too scared to respond. I ignore.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. I am not ready. Not worthy.
I disappear into the world of responsibility, feeding the human who sits on my lap.

My thoughts occasionally fall on you.
Once returning to that cafe; the same hour, same day.
Thinking. Wondering…
Maybe you were a regular. This was your usual. Meeting space with co-workers.

I imagined you as a biologist.
Brown hair, perfectly tousled.
6 foot 1.
Plaid scarf.