Coincidence- (noun) [ kōˈinsədəns, -ˌdens ]
Correspondence in nature or time of occurrence; a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection.
They met again at Starbucks a few weeks later.
This time, the girl was looking much better. Foundation and blush masked her true skin and she wore a pair of skinny jeans and a silk button-down shirt. Her hair was done back in a sleek ponytail, shiny with hairspray, and there were no bags beneath those brilliant eyes of hers.
He was wearing his school uniform (which was ugly) and a freshly added beanie.
She was sipping a vanilla bean latte.
He had a not-yet-drunken, still steaming, latte in his hands.
She sat down at a table near the window and pulled out a book. It was well-worn and dog-eared, the spine bent from multiple uses. The boy examined it, and he was able to make out Wuthering Heights.
He was physically unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face.
She’s a romantic, he thought, and just as he started to take a sip of his latte, she turned to stare at him. She set her book down, spine up, and raised her already somewhat-risen eyebrows.
“Are you following me?” She hissed. The boy laughed.
“No. You got here after me.”
“Well, if you're not following me, then what are you doing here?”
“Getting a coffee. Trying to relax. I have a big test tomorrow,” he explained, and the girl folded her arms across her chest.
“Really? How big of one? Because you should be studying.” Her voice sounded more ridiculing than one of an advice offering, but the boy just shrugged.
“I have an unnaturally high IQ. I think I’ll pass.”
“IQ’s aren’t everything.”
“What is, then?” He asked, and the girl took a sip of her Frappuccino, obviously pondering the question. The boy laughed, and instead of its usual awakwardness, it sounded natural and real. He laughed some more, enjoying the sound. The girl looked at him as if he were crazy.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, biting his lip. She smiled, and it was a beautiful sight.
“No problem. But you really should be studying.”
He did. He really, truly did, but he just….Didn’t want to.
At the hiatus in conversation, the girl pulled out her phone, and already, the boy could see that her home screen was jam-packed with missed phone calls and unread texts. She rolled her eyes, unlocking it, sighing, and then turning it off again.
“I don’t like texting,” she explained. “Especially with people I don’t like.”
“I can understand,” the boy tried, although he didn’t. He loved texting. It made communicating quite a bit easier, and plus, talking on the phone took a lot of effort. He wasn’t into effort.
“Okay, well, I have to go. It was nice seeing you. Again,” the girl said, standing up and brushing off her jeans. The boy watched her.
“What? Did I do something?” She snapped.
“No. You’re gorgeous, that’s all,” the boy replied, and the girl turned fifty shades of crimson.
“Not really. But, um, thanks, I guess….” Her voice trailed off. The boy stood up and grabbed one of her hands. It was warm and soft and he practically melted into it, although his demeanor was cool and collected.