right now, i’m sitting in my local coffee shop and i’m trying to figure out the relationship between the two people seated diagonally from me.

a man and a woman, older than me — i would say around late 30s — seated in the plush chairs by a dormant fireplace. he’s leaning back and relaxed, sipping on a to-go cup. she’s leaned forward in her seat — the coffee shop’s blue mug resting on the table in front of her. i haven’t seen her touch it in a while, and i’m wondering if it has gotten cold yet.

they start out making small talk. it’s the first cold(er) day of the season in pittsburgh, so they definitely comment on the weather. she’s from new york, so she thinks this is better than the weather in buffalo. he’s from tampa, so… ya know. but now, they’re both in pittsburgh. and they have been for a while.

i quickly find myself wondering if they’re on a first date. now, i’m not saying that a man and a woman can’t get a cup of coffee platonically. i would be the first person to tell you differently. arguably, men and women should get a cup of coffee — as friends — more often. i think that they’re on a coffee date because of the small-talk, the way she’s leaning forward to him and settling into her chair, and because they have yet to bring up work or wives.

i’m listening to them the way i listen to phoebe bridgers, with intention. i’m wondering if they notice that i’m listening and writing at my computer about them. maybe they think i’m a spy.

i wonder if they’ll stay here when the shop empties — if they’ll decide to grab dinner at the hole-in-the-wall thai restaurant that’s down the street once the barista tells them it’s time to close up. i wonder if they’ll continue talking over an old-fashioned or two. and i wonder if they’ll tell the story of their first date, at the coffee shop on sarah street, at their wedding someday.

or maybe they’ll just become great friends. something like that.

but then, my illusion is shattered: he’s married, he has kids. she’s married, and her husband’s an engineer. this is an unofficial job interview, a pseudo-networking meeting. they are, in fact, absolutely not on a date. not even a platonic one.

shifting my focus away from these random people, i focus inward a little. why am i upset that they weren’t on a date? why, as someone who does not know these people… why did i completely romanticize their existence?

i think a lot about why i write. when i was younger, i wrote to escape reality — away from mean girls and messy rooms. as i got older, i wrote (to put it simply) because i was sad — i wrote stories and scripts in an abstract way to disguise how dark i was inside. but at twenty-two, i don’t really feel a need to escape my reality. i’m not as dark inside (well, as light inside as someone with anxiety can be, haha). for once, i like my life. a lot.

at this stage in my life, i think i’m in love with life so much to the point of constant romanticization. not just of my walks to rite aid (in my mind, i am little town belle), but i romanticize everything, even other people. i am constantly making up stories of the people i see in life: the nice man that works at my local rite aid, the woman who works at my favorite dim sum restaurant, two people sitting across from me at my local coffee shop.

i think it’s because — deep down — we all crave to be romanticized. and while so many of us hate to be perceived, it’s comforting to think that someone else is looking at you and thinking that your life is lovely. even if you’re just having coffee. or maybe that’s just me.

anyway, they’re leaving now, and i watch as the woman takes a sip of her coffee — the first i’ve seen her take in 45 minutes — before placing it on the counter, half-full, and leaving. i wonder if they’ll meet again, if this is the beginning of a beautiful working, professional partnership. maybe next time, her coffee won’t get so cold — she wasted a good $6.50 on that cup.

i need to remind myself that some people are simply meeting to network and that’s it. and that coffee gets cold.