Isabelle visited the café everyday. She looked forward to seeing him, the man in the trench coat, from where she sat at her table, for the most part unnoticed, with her laptop. He arrived at nine on the dot, and without fail, always wore the trench coat. He cut quite an impressive figure, superbly garbed, handsome, and exuding a confidence borne on the air. He never looked her way but from where she sat, usually in the corner, Isabelle would watch him. She was always left to wonder: what exactly was he hiding beneath the trench coat?

It had been years since she’d seen a show her mum had watched, "Highlander", but its main character had always worn a trench coat – and underneath he had carried a gleaming sword, ready to fight to the death. Duncan MacLeod, a handsome, charismatic, fierce Scottish warrior. Isabelle's mind ran wild with images evoked by the memory of the character. Was this man like Duncan MacLeod? And was he hiding something like a sword beneath the coat in case he was called upon to save the day?

The door's bell chimed and Isabelle looked up to see the man in the trench coat. She looked at her watch: nine o’clock. Right on time. A little nervous - whatever the reason - she shifted in her chair and smoothed her hair from her face. She had no desire to be noticed, but still, she could not help but watch the man. Not only was he handsome, but the coat he wore added to his allure and intrigue.

Isabelle heard the indistinguishable murmur of his voice. She imagined he had ordered an espresso con panna. The coffee was a rich, well-balanced, and smooth one, especially when served with a bit of cream. Yes, the drink would suit him. With the thought, her mind evolved to a well-balanced, smooth body, possibly clad in kilt and sword, beneath the trench coat. Her cheeks turned bright red at the thought.

There was suddenly a loud clatter of dishes, bringing Isabelle back to reality. She stole another glance at the counter to learn he was was picking up his coffee and turning around to leave. She lowered her gaze, pretending to read what was not written on the laptop.

Click, click, click….someone approached. Isabelle suddenly noticed gleaming, Italian leather shoes beside her table. Startled, she looked up to find him. He paused to place a cup of steaming, hot coffee on the table and smiled. It was a glorious smile.

“Good morning. Americano, I believe, is your drink of choice,” he said with a wink. “'Tis my treat, so please enjoy.”

Surprised, Isabelle managed a 'thank you' though her voice sounded more like a croak to her own ears. And was that a Scottish brogue she heard?

The man turned to leave but stopped abruptly and spun back around.

“The name’s Duncan. Best of luck with your writing, lass.”

She’s in a job interview, I ordered a coffee and bacon avocado scramble - already, we are not the same, we are leagues apart, she is trying to get somewhere in life while I open a novel, absorbing nothing but exactly what I choose, what I find inspiring.

This job interview is uninspiring. I am sitting at an outdoor cafe, across from a very bored manager of some Very Important organization, probably, he‘s yawning repeatedly, he has taken time out of his Very Important schedule to be here. The girl is trying way too hard to make a good impression. She started by saying: “Hi, sir, so glad to finally have the pleasure of meeting you! I’m Malia.”

He is asking her asinine questions, one after the other, Malia is getting dealt a bad hand - on purpose, seemingly. The manager of the Very Important organization is dealing her ones, twos, threes - no aces, no kings. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Jesus to God, my good lord. I get up, wipe fallen avocado off my dress, and walk over to Very Important manager and Malia.

”Malia! So good to see you!”

Her face looks confused, and then panicked. She has no idea who I am - and it is in that moment that I could be absolutely anyone, either to her or myself.

“Malia sat in on one of my poetry lectures recently, she’s engaging and bright.”

Malia looks perplexed, flabbergasted, every word for horrified while trying to remain dignified. I am now a poetry professor, perhaps at a Very Important school. I am someone I can respect, and as I walk away, back to my novel and eggs, I have transformed.

Evidently, I also transformed their entire conversation, the entire job interview.

Funny how a little insanity can really make things interesting.

While I’m finishing my novel and eggs, lost in a painless reverie, one where I am a poetry professor and writing books of my own, I see Malia and the manager get up and shake hands. It’s over.

Then, the Very Important manager comes up to me and asks if he can refill my coffee.

For, you see, people are only what we make them out to be in our imaginations.

I’ll probably never see Malia again. But then I realize - she was applying to a job at this very cafe where I am sitting, and this is my favorite cafe - with any luck, for either of us, I’ll see her again, probably very soon.

I wonder if after Malia left, she looked up poetry lectures, trying to find me.

I wonder if all we‘re ever looking for is to imagine others as they fit into our own imaginations.

your eye is my universe

looking backwards through my microscope

I close up bacteria attached to rotting flesh

it is not good to magnify reality

I study your pupil

specks of green dot soft brown lines fading

to a chilling black hole in space sucking me

in pulling yanking my helpless toward you

you study my skin

1000 times expanded and see every pimple

bump flaw blemish defect foible weakness

causing you to retch at the sight spectacle