A short called Agnes. And this is how I met her.
I recollect the first time my eyes laid on her. Every break, I used to dine alone in a bourgeois café established unpopularly along the university belt. It was less nestled by boisterous people and so a limpid place to purge time. Daily, I indulge my palate with Curry and cold Java whilst the remaining time is mine to grow callous in my seat. One fine day, as I was about to finish my routine, the meek chimes from the door belled. My eyes, as usual, is abnormally synchronous to who goes in and out of the café. I noticed this fagged looking girl, clumsy in every detail as she dropped the book considering all puissance were on her fingertips, engrossed texting. And in the time she picked it up, stuffs in her bag slipped out. She was awkwardly a turn off and so I decided to depart without even looking where she would be seated.
The following day, she did not show up; I did not expect her to come back. On the other day, she was already perched when I came. Staring at her closely: plain earrings, dyed hair, faint makeup, the badge in her uniform, and the book she was reading by Tom Porter, no doubt an architect student not far from my institution. I requested a different entrée this time, but at the same charge. There was nothing fancy about her, not even fairly ravishing except for the dint on the sides of her cheeks. I wonder what her name is. As she closed her book about to leave, her surname inked sidewise, Cordova. I finally unveiled something about her, at least.
Days had passed and I figured out she would only visit to lunch thrice a week. Increasingly, I was becoming an espionage to her. Every so often I would slyly tail her the moment she vacate the café. I did not care if she sees me, or else I would merely feign that were traversing the same route. Make-or-break, I irrevocably decided to introduce myself, I did not just know how.
One noontide, I saw her making way to the café. It was a terrible day for buckets of water come down from sky. She tried to cover herself with a book but failed so. Clumsy as ever, I whispered. Today is my day. I, on the abreast side of the street, with an umbrella amassing all the guts reserved, fleetly saved her from full-blown catastrophe. As gentle as a mist dress, I opened the door for her. This time, we shared the same table. We gibbered endlessly as the rain plummet unceasingly and decided to absent ourselves from respective class. Her name was Agnes Cordova and the rest is how we became lovers.
And they'd sit in the trees and they'd talk thru the night
While the blind moon swam in the pale starry light
And they talked and they crowed and they told what they knew
It was better than beer, it was all strange and new
There was grass all around, there was black up above
It was more than hello, it was something like love
And I don't know why life, it seems to be
So hard for dreamers like you and me
When love is, love is, love is everywhere.
Love is everywhere I go (Sam Philips)