Tale of a Highlander

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.”