The Coffee House

I miss the way words sound when spoken out loud.

I miss the camaraderie of strangers, in a room filled with a blue haze of cigarettes, listening and responding to a person's voice, body, smile, scowl. I miss the beat driven music, the low buzz of whispered conversations and the slap of hands against jean covered thighs. 

I miss watching him, as he sat in the corner, with legs crossed and hair standing on end, reading and writing furiously, unaware of my awareness until my shadow fell across his page and the mugs of fragrant black brew drew his eyes to mine. I miss the smile that lit up his face.

Yes. I miss the way words sound when spoken out loud.