I imagined that she was of great intelligence, she had ‘that way’ about her, like she was translating her amazing academic thoughts into a language that I could understand. It wasn’t that she spoke down to me in any way, it was a very ordinary conversation about coffee, but that there was this slight hestitation as if she were analyzing me before she answered. As if the world that she came from wasn’t quite the same place as I lived.
She was immaculately matching even down to the gloves. The kind of gloves that came in fabric bags to protect them and every shade and color possible. The kind you bought from shops with wooden shelves and glass cabinets. She smiled easily, but not fully. I felt she was guarded, as if happy may be the stuff of lesser mortals.
I wanted to follow her, see where her day went and how she found herself in a coffee shop in Lafayette, LA. I found myself making up my own answers, none of which were realistic.
If I’d have seen a photograph of her, I would have given her an English accent, the kind you overhear when in Liberty while looking at flower prints. I would have imagined her drinking Sherry in secret at 5pm. She would have been called Dorothia or Elizabeth Jane and her name would never have been shortened, no one would have dreamt of it, ever.
She left, with little steps that made her slightly clunky shoes look more dainty and a latte in a cardboard cup. I hoped it was for someone else.
