Tulips
As I sit in the same spot, at the same coffee shop that I go to every morning, with the same drink in my hand, I observe man walking through the door. He has a bouquet of tulips stuffed into his raggedy black backpack. As the huge glass doors close behind him, he makes eye contact with a plainish sort of girl, slouched over her book, eating a green apple. They hold each other’s gazes until he slowly walks up to her and gives her a plainish sort of kiss on her forehead. They hold each other now. For several long seconds. It’s not the sort of love you see on TV or walking through campus. No, thats lust; fake love that is driven by societies desire to want to need someone. This love, the love that I witness sitting in the same spot, at the same coffee shop, with the same drink, is a plainish sort of love that means more than any other love I have ever seen before. As they release their embrace, he reaches into his bag and pulls out the tulips. It is a simple sort of gesture that seems completely unnecessary but it means a lot. She begins to cry. He kisses her forehead once more, a plainish sort of kiss. And without any words, I can see that this kind of love is real.
