A Stranger in the Night

A young man arrives at the dining area. He's wearing dark jeans and a thin-looking black shirt that fits him enough to show subtle muscle. He comes up next to me to get coffee. I reach over to scoop sugar and cream into my cup. Our arms brush as he places a cup under the coffee dispenser, but I barely feel it through the thickness of my hoodie. I wonder, isn't he cold? I'm wearing leggings, a long-sleeved shirt, and a hoodie, yet the cold still bites my skin and settles in my bones.

I take my cup of coffee and go back to my table. I sit down, raise and cross my feet under me, and try to concentrate on my writing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him settle down on a table two rows across from me, to my left.

After writing a few sentences, I read them in my mind and realize they don't make sense or have a good flow. So I delete it all and start over. Why can't I do this? It's just a simple thought. On a normal work day I would have finished this already. I shake my head and mutter under my breath, no, that's not it. Rewrite. That doesn't read well.

I sometimes do this, thinking out loud to clear my head. Why am I so distracted?

I look up then catch the young man watching me. He smiles timidly.

I thought at first maybe he was smiling at somebody else, but we were the only people in the room. The receptionist was dozing off in her station.

I realize he's very handsome. Clean cut hair but a bit tousled at the top, dark, intense eyes, and a bright, warm smile. He's also tall, as I recall, when we stood side by side at the refreshments table. The young man and I are about the same age, too.

The young man is just my type. I chide myself for even thinking that. I have so much work to do, flirting and imagining romance movie scenes in my head shouldn't be one of them.

He doesn't look away, but instead, holds my gaze. His smile grows from shy and sheepish to more sure, firm. Intentional. I half expect him to wave his hand, but he doesn't.

I don't smile back and turn to my laptop. That's weird. Or not? He just smiled, that's all. We're both hotel guests. Maybe he was just being friendly.

I sip some coffee and write a few new sentences. My lips move as I whisper what I've written to myself. I nod slightly, liking what I got so far. I plug in my earphones and play music so I can focus. Two minutes into the song and I hear someone speak.

"Are you a tourist? A blogger, maybe?"

I stop typing mid-sentence. I look at the young man again. He's looking at me, waiting for my response with an open and genuinely curious expression. I can't believe he just asked me a question from his seat.

When I don't answer, he laughs softly, as if he was being silly. "I'm sorry. You must be busy," he says, bowing his head in my direction.

He really is talking to me, is he?

I take off one earbud. "Oh, it's okay. I am a tourist, but not a blogger," I reply.

"I see."

"I'm… a copywriter," I say, more loudly this time. Why do I suddenly want to talk to this guy?

"You're working, but it's a holiday?" He asks.

"It's complicated."

"Are you a freelancer?" The young man sips coffee, his gaze deep and intense. The look of someone who wants to know you, but also knows more about you than you think. A man with secrets. Chills run down my spine. Or was it just the cold weather?

I glance at the clock. It's half past one in the morning. Why is he drinking coffee this late? At least I have a reason for being here at this hour.

"No. I work for a private company. And they don't follow our country's holidays, so that's why I'm working," I say hastily. I give him a tight smile and get back to my laptop. I plug my earbud in again.

Okay, no more oversharing with a stranger. Back to work. If I finish early, I can still get some sleep before the rest of the world wakes up.

I sense the young man stand up and walk over to the glass wall. He sips coffee while enjoying the view of the city outside, lights twinkling the dark, hilly landscape.

I ignore him. I start to develop a momentum. The ideas just come to me and I type them down intently. Page after page and I completely forgot he was even there, until I look up again and finish the last sentence of the last paragraph.

He's gone.