Today Joseph decided to doctor his coffee. He stared at the clouds inside the cup as the cream swirled and joined the rest of the liquid. He continued to stare after he found a seat and unpacked his things.
He was waiting, hoping to see the woman again, but his mind was split.
How the fuck did that guy know his name? Joseph had read a couple of his books, gone to one talk, and never interacted with him in real life, ever. The only rational explanation he could come up with was that there was the picture on the inside cover of his novel. But why would the poet have read his novel, known his face and remembered his name? The book had only been out about five months, and popular for two or three. Joseph imagined the destitute, drunk poet casually stealing the book from one of the few bookshops remaining in the city, then reading it in an alley, laughing as he read at the immaturity of the text. Joseph still would have been flattered.
But no, that was impossible.
She never arrived at the coffee shop that day, so Joseph went back the next. And eventually, there she was, light cast around her body as she walked through the front door. She looked familiar. More so than before. It felt like he knew her already.
No, he would have remembered. It was just his heart playing tricks on his mind.