He measured his moments in plastic cups, filled to the brim with caramel and cream, just how he liked it.� He always sat by the wayside, closest to his looking glass, the appeal of which he thought second only to the coffee.� He wasnapos;t very much fond of coffee shops without them, large windows, that let in light like the glow of late afternoon.� In a sense, his looking glass was none of the sort, but captured ever so faintly, his reflection, opaque and unmoving, which he thought a pleasant contrast to what he observed beyond the glass: His world, as he described it, transience in motion.
Because he always enjoyed her company best, he brought with him a woman, and between them they shared his coffee, filled to the brim with caramel and cream, just how he liked it.� They would talk of the wayside, his view beyond the glass.� He would speak of fondness still, the undying need to connect, and memories past.� Between them, his coffee, he never drank.� If only to keep the conversation going, he thought, if only sheapos;d not take another sip.� Alas, his cup would empty, and the day would end.� This continued for several years, coffee by the wayside window, as they would come to call it.
He once told her of the beauty that was his looking glass, boundless and perfect, in every conceivable sense.� The occasional passerby was only a transient piece art, next to what he envisioned was so gleamingly perfect about the scenery, withheld in secret, between him and his looking glass, his wayside window.� On soft-spoken days, his most morose of dispositions would fleet, if only to admire of his looking glass, that which he deemed so boundless and perfect in every conceivable sense.�
On occasional days of whim, she would speak of passion, regret, tribulation, and longing.� All the while sipping his coffee, filled to the brim with caramel and cream, just how he liked it.� Because he always much preferred to listen to her speak, he only spoke in coffee spoons, laden between silence, his desire to have her speak, even after his cup would empty.�
The experience, however, was short-lived.� One day, his companion stopped coming by the wayside, and between him and an empty seat, his coffee lay before him, his coffee he never cared to drink.� As the seasons grew colder, he pondered if he should ever stay in waiting, if he would ever have coffee by the wayside window once again.� He pondered, if he could ever meet another woman, who was just as boundless and perfect, in every conceivable sense.� If he could lose himself in her looking glass eyes, and describe his sentiment, more pure than anything he could see beyond the glass.� When she thought he had been speaking of the outside, he had only been caught in her eyes, a feeling that he would only describe in secret, as being caught in the eternal moment, shared between two souls, over coffee, filled to the brim with caramel and cream, just how he liked it.������������
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