Gemotions

He found the little cafe first. That was always the way. He'd catch a fleeting glimpse of her, a flash of red hair, a quick movement in the crowd, and his world would tilt. He knew the art piece was hers, she’d mentioned it once, a casual aside, a brushstroke of conversation. Now it was on display, large and vibrant, in the window of a bookstore, bathed in the afternoon sun. He needed to be near it. Near her.

He bought a coffee, black, and sat at a table by the window, ostensibly reading a book. But his attention was elsewhere. He kept glancing at the painting, a vibrant landscape, but really, he was looking for her. His pulse pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt restless, compelled to move, to speak, to do… something.

She walked past. He recognized the shape of her shoulders, the way she held her head. She paused, and he saw the small intake of breath. He was sure she was going to come inside, and at the thought, a thrilling heat bloomed in his chest. But she didn't. She walked on. A pang of disappointment hit him, sharp and immediate.