Table for two

She sits alone at a table for two

at her local coffee shop.

The barista with the guitar tattoo

who smells like cigarettes

brought her a steaming cup of her

usual drink.

She lifts her head from the book

she's reading to thank him with a

warm and friendly smile.

And it's right then and there

that she notices it.

He's not looking her in the eyes

as he's returning the smile.

She see's it,

She see's the pain behind the smile

he's flashing her.

For a split second

she wonders if he knows that

she's just as broken as he is.

Impossible...

He can't,

After all she's mastered the art of being

an eccedentesiast.

So much so that she sometimes

fools herself into believing that her

smile is genuine.

She wants to say something to him,

that she understands,

that things will be ok.

But she can't,

Saying so would make her vulnerable.

Instead,

she hands him a huge tip,

wishes him a good evening,

returns to her book,

and takes a sip of her coffee.

She sits alone at a table for two,

observing people,

continuing to be the enigma that she is,

wondering

Is this really worth it?

Will it ever get better?

It must!

It just has too.