There you were, sitting in the corner of the Tin Cup Cafe in Brooklyn. You sipped on your warm tea from the classic white teacup with blue trimming. Your knitted ivory turtleneck sweater hugged you warmly as your hands cuddled the mug. Your autumn red curls, wrapped in Nigerian print, crowned your head like royalty. Africa hung from your earlobes, swayed in pride. With every sip of your tea, your smooth tawny skin flushed light pink at the cheeks. The steam danced in the rhythm of your breath.
There you sat, unbothered as the world roared around you. Your attention, devoted to the pages of your book. Every so often you would lift your eyes from your book, scan the cafe, and stare aimlessly out the window. The sun accentuated the honey hue of your eyes. You glared into the hustle of Brooklyn never in search of anything. Right as you buried your face back into your book, you’d stroke the left side of your forehead with your left pointer finger and trace the slope of your arched left eyebrow. Everything about you was poetic, effortless and intoxicating.
After you finished your tea, you stood and showcased your tight black denim jeans. Your curves only magnified your beauty. You gently placed the teacup on the small plate, bookmarked the page and closed your book. You slipped your book into your small black Africa shaped book bag, slid the straps over your shoulders, nodded at the barista and headed towards the door.
You were like a Polaroid picture. Your silhouette faded in; you were an enchantress. Your bed of freckles looked like dark chocolate shavings sprinkled on top of your cheeks. The curves of your lips sent tickles through mine.
You stopped; you stood so close to me. Your brown sugar and nutmeg aroma snuggled around my nostrils like a winter blanket. Your eyes climbed up my body until they were staring straight into mine. Those beautiful honeycomb colored eyes radiated independence and fierceness. My tongue, glued to the roof of my mouth, left me voiceless. My eyelids, afraid of missing a moment, refused to close. My legs, fearful of letting you leave, stood firm like iron pillars.
“Excuse me,” you breathed. Your voice was soft as an angel’s breath and as refreshing as cold spring water. You slipped past, leaving me imprisoned in your attraction as you strode away. Oblivious to your lasting effect, you walked out the door and into the world where the wind instantly played in your curls as if it enjoyed the presence of Africa. With every stride you floated further and further away like stars inching out of sight by the sun’s daybreak.
Your autumn red coils bounced, wrapped in Nigerian pride, waved at everyone as you continued down the street. You bathed in the sun rays as you waited for the walkman sign to cross the street. I stood in the window of that cafe and watched as you strode further and further from my view. Voiceless, motionless and spellbound.
Alexis Watson is an emerging writer with previous blog experience with two societal works published on BlvckDoor. She graduated from The New School with her Masters in Creative Working. She currently resides in Brooklyn.
Beautiful work. Hope to see more!
Beautifully written! I was right there with you admiring the enchantress!
Compelling piece. I felt like I was the narrator experiencing Her presence.
Wow. I feel like I was teleported right into the world of this author’s mind. Such a vivid, poignant and eloquent scene. And so relatable! I think most of us have a run into a special person we’ve had no luck communicating to. I would love to see a series from her!!!
This is beautiful work Alexis, I enjoyed reading it. <3