I don’t know what it means to be married yet. I’m sitting with a young man who I’d like to kiss. But he’s having coffee with me, coffee in big bowl-like cups, nothing more. That’s all we’ll ever have. Words and different forms of water. Sure, I’ll profess my love and lust at some point, but I haven’t just yet.
And within all that, he somehow turns the talk to marriage that day at the Cloister Café. He states quite confidently, I know who you’re going to marry. This is good. While he doesn’t want to date me, it definitely looks like he wants to get married.
I don’t understand yet that there’s an in between. I flash my best showgirl smile. He says, You’re going to marry a foreigner. You’re going to marry someone who isn’t from the States.
The lights dim in my teeth. Show over. Because the young man that I want to kiss is clearly from the States. Clearly not a foreigner. I sip my coffee quietly.
The spell that boy cast between my quiet sips of coffee at the Cloister Café.