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Cold Cafe




It was so cold. Like every day. Grey and cold and if you turned the wrong way, a vicious slash would slap you across the face. But she went out without a hat because it was now April.

It was her first year in Berlin. So many things here were a first. The roommates. The language. The change in her career. But she was fine with it all, nomadic and adapting. The only thing that rankled was the lack of a man. The cold weather was bringing it on, this need for a warm body to press up and into.

She was exploring streets. She’d heard of a café and found it quite near to where she liked to go. It was small and the coffee was as good as they’d said. She sat facing the wall near the door, reading. 

Two women and a man entered. One woman was older, perhaps her age. The other, young, and the man was probably hers. He was lovely and they spoke French.

She observed, as she does, rating his beauty over her coffee and book. He didn’t appear to notice.

The café was so tiny that there was no room. They decided to go and the women went first. She took off her glasses, in a gesture familiar to herself… a prelude to flirting. He noticed and then she knew that he had noticed her before. They saw each other and as he let the two women leave, he looked into her eyes and gave her a complicit smile before he too was gone.

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