Sticky
Sitting like a lone sapling in the coffee shop, she tries to remember where one's hands go when trying to look cool, confident, and not afraid to be alone. Fidgeting--starting at her lap, next to the sticky tabletop, to resting her chin, back to her lap, and finally to a comforting cigarette. Inhaling and then slowly exhaling, she releases small rings of froth into the air, not unlike the trail of foam that remains at the lip of her coffee cup. Finally, her hands rest. She reclines her wrist and ashes her cigarette into a clear ashtray, but her eyes are still lost in this forest of people, each maple and oak knows its place--chatting, touching, and smiling. Across the room, a boy unsuccessfully tries to root himself into the tile, amongst the people. He's cute, with fake blond hair and perfectly aligned teeth, but somehow lacks the charisma of a high school heartthrob. After all, it's hard to be suave if your gaze doesn't go past your shoes. Unable to find fertile ground, he wanders through the branching limbs and hazy fog of conversation, finally resting at a single, empty chair. Like an insect to flypaper, his arm is drawn to the corner of a tabletop--a surprisingly sticky surface. His arm twitches slightly, trying to escape without ripping out his arm hair--just enough commotion for the girl to direct her gaze away back to the table. Her glance catches him off guard--just enough to cause half of his mouth to smile uncontrollably, leaving the other side reluctant and unsure. She tries to hide her enthusiasm for his company, but she is also caught, as the corners of her lips stretch from ear to ear.
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