Not again...

Our eyes met briefly as I walked into the café. She stirred slightly in her place on the couch in the corner of the room, the very place I always sat, and today wasn't going to be any different. She had about her the look of an slightly aging supermodel, though such would never pass time at this place. I had no idea how numbered her years save to say that had I guessed I'd almost certainly have been wrong. Not that I really cared.

I got my coffee, and sat down in my usual place, and began to write, just like I do every time I go there late at night. As it happened I began writing verse, though I'd gone to work in fiction. Idle chatting began as it often does... speaking first of the coffee; excellent stuff, but we both knew that, and we each knew that the other was every bit as well aware, so it was a frivolous discussion, a fact that was clearly mutually understood.

She had been reading a newspaper, about whose contents she upon my query confessed not to carry a whit of concern, an apathetic sentiment I sadly shared, but no sane man would ha. She inquired as to what I was writing, which I read aloud, and she seemed to enjoy, but could have been just as well grasping for conversation. I read some more, and we chatted some more. A bit different from the standard first meeting banter, but to a similar tune. As we talked the space between us diminished as did the contents of our mugs. As a reflex, I spoke six words that males are trained to say at such an occasion, but were at the moment poorly judged. She said yes, and we got up and stepped forward to the counter, for as is custom in such locales, the selection of spirits oft varied from day to day. Selections were made, and the inevitable happened.

"Can I see your ID?"

I turned to a woman taken aback. Her expression told me all I needed to know. I kissed her hand, then with a whispered, "Goodbye," turned and left.

That bastard wouldn't have carded unless he wanted to fuck with me.