Lean onto one foot, reach to the ashtray, stub out the smoke as I pass. Back to a sunny morning's work, head mostly full of things I ought to write, to justify my stay at the café I like the best. Pivot on the foot, fall in behind the lady that approached from the other direction, a length-two queue to make our way inside. She seems familiar, though I'm sure we've not met.

We seem unlikely to meet today, because she's swinging the door shut in my face.

She senses while while it's closing that she has a man behind, and snags upon the knob to catch the door. Me reaching for it also, shifting weight to catch the blow, with no thought that she'd notice it before...

Ah, the stuff that bad verse is made of. Were this a movie, subtle strings would have played to a sudden stop right at this point.

Her spin to make the catch has left us moving toward each other, only a dozen or two inches apart. Her height is precisely that which centers her eyes in my gaze, as we realize what's happening and freeze in place. It seems I have some few extra milliseconds to appreciate their color, the contrast with her hair. The direct way they're meeting mine, as if she sees some good things too.

Our heads simultaneously tilt just a fraction, as if to keep from bumping noses, even though we're no longer moving toward each other.

She then unspins without a word, at the very last moment when she can do that and remain polite.

She continues to the counter, as I return to the sunny table I'd abandoned for my smoke. I take my seat in front of my writing box, but can't yet look it in the eye. I take in the view beyond it instead. I'm tucked in a corner, looking edge-on to that door, with a window showing me the threshold on which I'd almost met her. A minor pivot of my head would show the counter and bring the lady back in view... but what would be the point? It's not as if she'll come stand under my eyes again. It's not like it's going to get better.

I take an extra moment to consider those eyes. Dyed contacts, dyed hair, or both, I decide. Some trickery for impact was definitely afoot, or perhaps it was just the moment. Having appreciated and dismissed that, I can return to making words. I focus on the writing box, and blur out all the background, and pick up the thread I'd woven while outside.

Something within me registers the motion as she finishes and moves back to the door. Since it won't get better, I freeze my expression and lock eyes on my screen as she moves into my background. The blur of her crosses, opens the door, moves through, and the door squeaks toward shut.

I hear no slam, however, and through the window a blur seems to pause just outside. Curiosity lifts my chin after a couple of seconds, and I focus eyes on the unclosed door.

Just then, it rattles, and wobbles open a little bit farther. I realize the lady has reached back to finish closing the door, but failed to quite snag the knob this time. Instead, she's knocked the door back toward open.

My eyes go to the window, and sure enough, she's there, six feet away through a pane of glass, stretching farther back to reach the knob. Instead of looking at what she was doing while closing the door, she appears to have been facing toward me.

I find that I am smiling by the time my eyes reach hers. Hers are rolled far back into her head, like I do when I feel like an utter idiot, and the door closes rather more firmly than it needs to. Then there's a pivot on one foot, putting her back to me as she walks away, without her eyes unrolling in the least while facing mine.

I can't recall the last time a lady got clumsy while looking my direction. I'm pretty sure that's the best compliment I'll get this week.

Damn shame that should I ever again see her, I'll have to pretend it never happened - pretend it never got better.

Otherwise I'd probably get clumsy.