I’m Sorry, Annie

Annie…

Usually I sit across the coffee shop (because I’m not ashamed to fall right into the stereotype) and I never learn her name. I adore and admire her as I cower in my cold seat, iced coffee cooling me down all the more. Not a thing tells me to warm up, to approach her, and so I remain cold. Hours pass and I have that moment of realization that I have, once again, walked into another moment I will regret. Not for long, but regret is still regret, even for a second.

I look up twice per minute to catch a glimpse of her before she is aware I exist. I fantasize about that moment I actually get the gumption to cross the entire shop, introduce myself, and take her back to my table for our first coffee date. But I remain in isolation, cognizant of my solace.

Seemingly, nothing has changed. Peace and order are maintained, comfort and dignity are still in contact. But that’s not what matters here, is it?

Nope. It’s like every other missed opportunity. It’s not even regret. It goes deeper than that.

It’s not like I always expect the girl across the room is my true love… It’s that thought of “what if.” What if I had the chance to make her day, to give her a story to tell about the boy at the coffee shop that’s bashful and clumsy with words, to remind her that love is searching, and someday it will find her. She’d admire me, too.

The true injustice of it all is that’s not going to happen. It’s with that bypassed opportunity that I hurt her. What is more, I know the name of the lady I assailed with my resignation. I’m sorry, Annie.

“Oh, to be young and feel love’s keen sting.” -Jacob Randall