I drag myself to “my coffee shop.” I like having places that are mine. I don’t have a house or a husband but at least I have the tan couch at my coffee shop.
I think back on PDA I’ve participated in in my life. I feel determined to not be that couple ever again. But I do #hope I’ll be a couple again.
Open in his lap is a leather bound bible with the pages that tear too easily. Without speaking I know he loves Jesus and wants to marry me. #hope
I realize I don’t ever bring my bible to the coffee shop and realize this must be why I’m going to die alone.
I look in the mirror, #hopefully run my fingers through my hair and know it looks the exact same.
I kick off my shoes and realize he is writing a paper. I feel even better. I may not be pious enough for someone who just reads their bible for kicks at coffee shops.
I imagine having to send a text to friends cancelling plans later because I got asked on a spontaneous date.
Well that could go either way.
Is he being funny? I like that.
Is he a prosperity gospel guy? Not going to work.
I notice he has a disposable water bottle. That’s a minus point. The earth matters.
This is my chance. Surely I can catch a glimpse of some helpful clues. And then as if he knew exactly what I wanted he stacked all of his things neatly and placed his backpack on top of all the evidence.
Obviously he is playing hard to get.
I keep “reading” but try to look only casually invested hoping he will interrupt me when he comes back. This plan is unsuccessful.
I think about saying something but he really does look tired.
This #hope is always a long shot. It’s as romantic a notion as the in love couples who forced me on to this couch to begin with.
“Where do you go to school?”
“What are you writing about?”
He doesn’t seem like he wants to talk but I don’t want to be accused of not putting myself out there. Again the colored mug system could really help.