Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

an imagination of hopeless romanticism

A man is sitting at a table in a restaurant, sipping what looks to be a Dr. Pepper. A plate is in front of him, with scattered scraps of food on it. The restaurant is semi-full, with people around him speaking Spanish when all he really knew, aside from the English language, was French. Let’s say his name is Tim, though it doesn’t really matter what his name is. He notices someone somewhat elegantly walking past him, and is instantly smitten. It must have been the hair. It must have been something.

Tim writes something with a pen that was inexplicably in his jacket, onto a napkin. The someone, let’s say her name is Sarah, or Robin, it’s for the reader to decide, stood no more than five feet away.

His note read:

“i don’t know your name.
if we are to meet again,
would that just prove fate?”

She walks past him, without any sort of acknowledgment. Tim hears the bells above the door ring her exit, and returns to sipping his Dr. Pepper.


One Comment on “an imagination of hopeless romanticism”

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