There’s smoke rising in small wisps out of my coffee machine.

I’m not sure what I did to cause it to break, I’m pretty sure I followed the instructions, and it wasn’t anything different than what I did with my last coffee maker. I decide to just unplug the thing and hope that maybe it’ll cool or magically fix itself. I’m going to need coffee to get through the next two weeks of finals.

It’s music history that’s gotten me so flustered. I love it and find it interesting, but I’ve never been one with the ability to memorize dates and specific facts, which is unfortunately a lot of what music history’s about. The listening aspect I’ve got down pat. I could listen to any piece of music and tell you the era , composer, and the instruments. You’d think this would help when it came to writing about it, but I always find myself so lost.

I sit down at the table in the living room and try to forget about how much a good cup of coffee would help my concentration. I find myself flipping through sheet after sheet with little success of getting the words into my long-term memory.

Somewhere between rifling through what feels like a million pages of notes and the smoke that’s starting to seep more heavily out of my coffee machine, I get the idea that working down at the coffee shop around the corner would be more productive. It’s a nice place, and I’m not in the busiest of neighbourhoods, so it’s never really that full. I grab my stack of papers, clip them together and shove them in my bag before donning my jacket and my favourite scarf and then locking the door behind me.

The walk there doesn’t take too long, and while the air is crisp, it’s getting warmer as spring rolls in. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep them from going numb and pick up the pace, getting me there quicker than usual.

When I’ve arrived, I order my coffee and find a table off in a corner. The shop isn’t very large, so “off in a corner” doesn’t really mean much. I can still see the barista mixing specialty coffees behind the counter and the odd customer or two walking through the door.

I’m about to go straight to my notes when the small bell over the door rings and someone walks in. I typically tend to block out the sound of the bell, but I find myself looking up this time. I watch as a young man strides in, wearing an impressive looking jacket that looks like it was made to fit him. He glances quickly around the shop, looking like he’s gathering his bearings – not a regular, it seems – and his eyes land on me briefly. I look away sharply, not wanting to be caught in the act of people watching, but I feel his gaze linger for a moment before I’m looking up again and he’s moving towards the counter and the small line forming, looking suddenly stricken, as if he’d seen a ghost.

I shake my head softly, trying to rid the strange experience, and then I’m pulling out the papers from my bag and spreading them out on the small table in front of me. The larger table in my apartment would probably work better, but the walls were going to make me start pulling out my hair soon, trapped in there, studying for days. I try to focus my attention, but my eyes wander the shop again.

The stranger who I watched enter not long ago is standing up at the counter now. Instead of looking at the barista, however, he’s looking at me. Glancing may be the more accurate term, trying to pretend, and failing, that he’s not. I don’t know what it is about me that makes him want to stare, but then I realize I’m staring right back, and drag my eyes away to focus on my papers again.

I hear a chair to my right scrape the floor, and I glance out of the corner of my eye to see the young man sitting down. He pulls out a notebook of some sort from his satchel and starts scratching at the paper with a pencil. I assumed writing at first, but he must be sketching something.

The longer I look, the more I realize that he’s blinking a fair bit, and I wonder if the cool New York air blew something into his eye, or if he’s having a bad day. He seems to be breathing difficultly as well. Not like he can’t find the air he needs, more like he can’t seem to control what he has. It’s interesting, and I find myself wondering why I’m analyzing this stranger.

I bring my hand up and rub over my eyes before focusing back on my notes. There are dates scribbled in margins and more information than I think will ever break through the barrier of my brain, but I try anyways. The Baroque period was circa 1600 to 1750, signalling the end of the Renaissance. Bach, Handel, Vivaldi. Functional tonality –

I reach out for my coffee and my vision catches on the sight of the stranger hastily shoving his notebook back into his bag. I glance over and watch as he struggles to keep his cool and get out of his seat without tangling the strap of his bag around the chair or spilling his coffee over everything. As he gathers all his things, his eyes briefly shift up and catch mine and then dart away frantically. He blinks hard and then strides out as gracefully as he can manage.

I furrow my brow and wonder why a complete stranger would be acting so strange around me. Have I done something truly offensive with my hair today? Is it sticking up in the most random ways? The stranger had looked very put together, maybe my unruly curls were too much for him. Maybe it had nothing to do with me at all, and that’s the most probable answer. I’m just Blaine Anderson, a stranger to him.

I go back to my notes, determined to do well on my music history final. The establishment of opera, the harpsichord, clavichord, fortepiano…

I decide it’s best not to dwell on the strangeness of the encounter at the coffee shop. Instead, I focus solely on my studies. I throw myself in the words and sounds of Renaissance, Baroque, Classical. I’ve never found anything quite so interesting as music, whether it’s the history or the present. Something about it soothes me and it’s what I grasp and hold to get through difficult times.

But I’m fidgety now. Even though I know it’s best not to think about the stranger at the shop, and I try hard not to, I’ve got his eyes burned into mine. It was the quickest flash of a sky blue, too quick and far away to note anything but the sharp, clear colour. It was like living your life with the blinds closed and then opening them one day to see the crisp afternoon sky.

I’ve almost finished all my finals, my second year at NYU drawing to a quick and stressful end. I debate going back to the coffee shop to study some more, but the thought of running into the stranger again makes the choice difficult. On one hand, I feel almost drawn in, like I should be searching him out, finding him again. If not to figure out what got him so flustered in the short span between walking in the door and sitting down, then to feel the swell inside me again at the colour in his eyes.

But on the other hand, I know I won’t get any work done. If I go back, I might just sit at a table and watch the door, hoping that for some reason I’ll get a glimpse of the stranger again. He shouldn’t have me so riled up, but I can’t help the wonder that shifts inside my brain. Just what was it that had his eyes flicking to me, and was it the same thing that had me looking back?

I go back to the coffee shop a week after my last final. My mind is now cleared of the jumble of words, dates, sounds, and I’ve come to the realization that maybe the stranger will clear out too, if I return to the shop and see that he’s not there. Just a chance encounter that one day and that it didn’t mean anything. That he was scrambling because of a work deadline or a loved one, and that it had nothing to do with me.

My plans of ridding my mind of him are thwarted though, when I walk through the door and see him sitting in the table I had been at the last time we’d both been in here. He looks up hopefully when the bell over the door rings and when he sees me he looks relieved, but then he ducks his head nervously. It seems we’re playing a game of cat and mouse, waiting to see who will be the one to chase.

I make an impulse decision and walk up to the counter. The barista working right now, Megan, looks up at me and smiles familiarly. “Hey, haven’t seen you ‘round in a bit. The usual?” she asks, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder.

“Uh, yeah,” I get out, powering through before I lose my nerve, “I had a question though.”

“Oh?” She stops punching in my order and looks at me with an interested quirk of her eyebrow.

I shuffle on my feet and glance back at the stranger briefly. He’s not looking up now, he looks like he’s forcing his concentration on whatever he’s sketching in his notebook. “That guy, at the table in the corner, how long’s he been here this morning?”

She looks over at him and then looks back at me inquisitively before resuming punching in my order. “Funny you should ask,” she says, “he’s been here every day for the past two weeks. Just sits in that corner practically all day. He’s been here for a few hours, why?”

I ignore her question, “I’ll also get whatever he’s drinking, his must be cold or gone by now.”

She pauses for a moment and then shrugs her shoulders; business is business. I pay her and she hands over the drinks, giving me a hopeful smile as she does. I can tell that she thinks I’m courting, and I take a moment to ponder if I am. I mean, I’m buying coffee for a stranger based on a couple glances, and what might be terribly misread facial expressions.

I pause in my path to the stranger in the corner. What am I doing? What if this isn’t what the stranger wants at all? What if I really did offend him with my hair last time? What if he was looking past me all those times I thought we made eye contact? I give myself 2 seconds to panic and then I take a deep breath and resume my way over to the table.

He doesn’t look up when I approach, and it’s almost like I can feel the tension rolling off of him as he stares intently at his work and doesn’t allow himself the chance to look away. I observe how his eyes widen slightly when I know I must enter into his range of sight, and he draws his bottom lip into his mouth, taking a subtle breath before looking up at me inquisitively.

His eyes are just as blue as I remember; the same blue that’s been haunting my dreams. I can see different specks of green in them as well, and I never thought I’d see something so beautiful. I blink and pull myself back from drowning, and hold up the extra drink I bought, “Thought you could use a refill.”

He starts slightly at my voice and his gaze takes a break from my face and darts down to the cup in my hand. He opens his mouth to say something, but only air comes rushing out. The blue of his eyes disappears as he closes them for a moment, swallows, and it looks like he’s steeling himself. For what, I’m not sure.

I place the drink down on the table, because whether he says anything or not, the drink was still meant for him. He opens his eyes and looks at the coffee, then back up at me. His voice is soft when he speaks. “Thank you.”

I had thought that his eyes would cause me to drown, but I see now how you have to take everything into consideration. Where his eyes are the sea that pull you under, his voice is the warm blanket that dries you off and keeps you safe. I can’t help the smile that plays upon my lips.

“You could join me,” he suggests before floundering slightly, “if you’d like, that is.”

I chuckle at his nervousness, and slide into the seat across from him. It’s not that I’m not nervous, or that I’m simply used to handing over coffees to strange men I’ve only seen once, it’s that he does it all so gracefully. Even as he had waved at the extra seat, it should have been awkward, but it was smooth and it settles my insides while lighting them aflame at the same time.

He flips his notebook shut quickly, and I can’t help but ask, “What are you working on?”

“Oh, no, no,” he splutters, “it’s nothing.”

“You looked like you were working pretty hard on it,” I press.

He presses his lips together and meets my eyes, “Just work stuff.”

I offer him a smile and then take a sip of my coffee, “Where do you work?”

He returns my smile with a smaller one and I watch as his fingers fidget around his drink, “Oh, just… just some internship in fashion, it’s not really… it’s not really interesting.” He waves his hand slightly as if to brush the topic aside, but I can tell that he does think it’s interesting, he just thinks I won’t feel the same though.

“I’m Blaine, by the way,” I tell him, and he stops dead, like he’s been hit by a wall. He blinks twice before fixing the smile back on his face.

“That’s a nice name,” he says softly, then adds, “Kurt.”

I reach my hand across the table, intending to shake his, but he stares at my skin for a moment, as if debating whether to actually engage in the custom. I’m about to take my hand back and spare us the awkwardness when his hand shoots off the table and grasps mine. It’s like a bolt of lightning runs through my arm and I can’t help the way my hand squeezes his for a moment too long.

He lets out a soft gasp at the contact and I have to rewire my brain in order to pull back. There is something about this man, Kurt, who’s just grabbed all my belongings and rattled them up until I can’t find left from right anymore.

We settle back in our seats and he looks sheepish while I press my hand into my hot cup, trying to stop the way that bolt of lightning has set my nerves into overdrive.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly, “What brought you to New York?” His eyes widen at his words and he tries to retract them, pull them back into his mouth, “I mean, that is if you haven’t been here your whole life, I just assumed for some reason.”

I can’t help but laugh, and the sound allows Kurt the chance to relax. “I just moved here a couple years ago, why, do I scream not-native New Yorker?”

He smiles, “I just had a feeling.”

“I go to NYU,” I explain, “I’m studying music.”

His face softens and he blinks rapidly a few times before focusing his attention on the table. I wonder what it is that’s driving his emotions as it goes quiet for a bit.

“Look,” I feel the need to explain as I stand, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, you were obviously busy working.”

His hand moves with startling speed as it reaches up and grasps my arm. There’s that bolt of lightning again, tingling all my senses and threatening to clear my head of anything that isn’t this intense feeling. Kurt’s eyes are wide and pleading as he states, “No, no. You didn’t interrupt anything. Please, sit back down.”

I look into his eyes again and feel myself sinking back into my chair.

He laughs with only a little humour and smiles. Through the tingling of my skin I note that he hasn’t removed his hand from my arm, and it feels strangely like it belongs there. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit…” he waves his free hand wildly in the air, “I… uh… I ran into an old friend the other day, and it’s just kind of thrown me.”

A small bit of disappointment weighs on my heart, and I know I shouldn’t feel bad that the reason he’s always been so flustered around me must be because of this friend. “Oh,” I say, hoping the topic isn’t so strange since we just met, “Someone special?”

He smiles sadly and his eyes get a bit glassy, “Yeah. He was.”

My chest erupts at the same time it caves in. I guess I have been courting, since the wave of knowledge that he must still harbour feelings for this friend crashes over me just as my heart swells to have the confirmation that he could be an option.

Kurt must realize that my arm is still trapped under his hand because it pulls it back suddenly and takes a deep breath to rid the melancholy that must have settled over him.  “Let’s not think about that,” he says, forcing brightness with a smile that could light up the room.

I laugh and ask him about his work again, to which he sighs in mock annoyance, rolls his eyes, and explains what it is that he does. It is interesting, and I try to keep up, but he picks up speed and starts using phrases and terms that must only make sense to those privy to the fashion world, and so I just take in his words, asking for clarification every now and then, and watch how he shifts into calm. Talking about something that makes sense to him and that he likes. It’s a good look on him, comfortable and calm. I decide that I want to see it more often.

There’s something about him. I’m not sure if it’s the twinkle in his eyes or his smile, but there’s something about it. It fills me with warmth right down to my toes, and I wish I could explain it. I’m smiling widely before I realize and he looks slightly bewildered but his eyes are still soft.

“What?” he asks.

I shrug and don’t offer him anything else.

He blushes and then laughs, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been rambling over here, tell me about yourself.”

I start to speak, beginning to tell him about my uninteresting life here in New York. A tiny apartment, a still broken coffee machine, those little mundane things. However, I hear a small noise and his eyes widen before he’s fumbling at his pant pocket, pulling out a phone and muttering a “sorry” before reading the text that came in.

He sighs and the happy look that came over his face while talking fades away. He looks up at me and his eyes roam over my face as if he were trying to drink me in.

“Is it something important?” I question, and his eyes flit down to my lips when they form the words before shaking his head of some thought and smiling tightly.

“It’s my roommate,” he explains, “I… I have to go. I’m sorry.”

I try not to be disappointed, but I don’t know if I’ll ever see this man again, and I’m not sure if I could do that. It was hard enough just seeing him before, he took over my thoughts and his eyes tattooed on the insides of my eyelids. Now I’ve got his voice and his touch and him to add to it.

It’s this thought that has me reaching out and grasping his hand when he goes to put his long-forgotten notebook back in his back. He startles at the contact and his eyes are wide as he looks into mine. “Please tell me I can see you again,” I ask desperately.

He doesn’t have any words, but he nods and then the corner of his mouth lifts in a sweet smile.

I try to ignore the fact that I get lost in his eyes again, and then I’m stuttering out, “That French restaurant down the street… would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow? At 6?”

His mouth hangs open for a second as he scrunches his eyebrows and his lips form around a word that looks like how before he’s nodding and smiling, “I would love to. I’ll meet you there?”

“Yeah, okay.” I feel like I’m in a daze suddenly.

He smiles widely and brushes my shoulder with his hand as he walks past me to the door. I reach my hand up to touch the spot. It feels like I’ve been burned by a tender fire.