Bashful Hearts

She grew up in that small coffee shop. In fact, she was Mary Rose. Not the Mary Rose, but her grandmother, the woman who owned the small place, was. She was simply named after the woman and the legendary shop. It had been open since before she was born and will probably be passed down to her when something happened to her grandmother. It was small and it was a hole in the wall and they didn’t see many new faces, but their regulars were fiercely loyal and very familiar.

That’s why an unfamiliar face today took her by surprise. No one ever sat at the table in front of hers, next to all of her favorite books. Yet today, when she looked up, frustrated with what she was working so desperately on for her creative writing class, there this mysterious boy sat. She had only seen him for a moment before he suddenly got up and awkwardly walked out, but she had memorized every inch of his face.

She had been hunting endlessly for days for a subject for the piece her professor had given her. “An interesting person, mannerisms and face,” her professor had said “study their face, study their mannerisms. Write about it.” She had been lost, no face was interesting enough, no mannerisms caught her eye. She had been to parks and bars and beaches and libraries, but no one had caught her eye.

However, not until the boy with the mystique pine green eyes and the rosy pink cheeks walked into her grandmother’s coffee shop. He had fallen right into her lap, and she would return to that coffee shop without fail (not like she wasn't there on a regular basis anyway) and hope that he would return.