They say the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. So why did we take the meandering path, the road less travelled?
In the cafe where I got my coffee each morning you were always at the same table. The first thing I noticed was your eyes — the lines in the corners that I just knew were from smiling. I’d sit at a neighboring table and pretend not to watch you. One week you’d be reading Dan Brown and I’d judge you, the next week, E.M. Forster, and I’d swoon.
I loved the glasses you sometimes wore, your overcoat in winter, the way you folded your shirtsleeves up to your elbows, showing off your forearms. You took your coffee black and occasionally you’d treat yourself to a brownie. You used a green fountain pen to scribble notes on scraps of paper.
I hated weekends and the days when, for some reason, you weren’t there.
Almost a year after I first saw you, I looked up, and there you were at my table, smiling.
“Hi,” you said. “May I join you?” I nodded and I knew.
We took the road less travelled and it has made all the difference.