You call that art?

He sat in a poorly lit corner of the furniture crowded coffee house.  His apparel would become outdated if you described it.  Pen in one hand, and a black notebook in the other he bent over his work.

She was at the counter, chatting with the barista, biding her time until she noticed him.  The attraction instant and subconscious.  A primal understanding, here was a mate with talent.  The way young girls swoon over pop stars, or the girl at the bar goes home with the guy that clears the pool table.  She approached the table and sat.

He glanced up from his work, immediately taken in his own way, physically reacting to his own unconscious understanding of her quality.  He felt fueled and inspired by it.  Whether or not he realized it, sitting across from him was the only reason he practiced his art.  His designs the human equivalent of carefully pruned plumage.  He smiled at her, and went back to work, with passion and drive.  He could work the rest of his life sitting across from her, the power of woman so subtle and strong.

She sat and watched him work for a while, without saying a word.  Enraptured in the way he would look up every now and again, making her wonder, is it a portrait?  Or maybe a poem.  Perhaps he’s writing a screenplay.

Is it about me?

“Can I see?”

He clutched the notebook close to his now palipitating chest.  This was his work, what would she think?  It is a big moment, but he has courage and confidence.  He smiles, and pushes the notebook across the table.

She looks at it slowly moving it from side to side.

“What is it?”

Perplexed with a sprig of disappointment she looks to him.

“Code.”

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