Coffee Shop in December

Snow against the windowpane; who knew angels fell so softly? I’m sitting by the window, cup of cocoa in my hand, listening to the soft jazz humming from some hidden speaker amidst the orbs of light that frame this coffee shop on the corner of two unmarked streets. In moments like this, mid-December, half-magical from the holidays, half-quiet from a long and sleepless year, I lay my forehead against my wool sweater, feel the threads tickle my brow. I’m waiting for fate, like everyone else here, waiting for my muse, waiting for a sign. I’m waiting for some interesting face, not attractive necessarily, just interesting, asking for a story. But we are tired souls sitting in the same station, waiting for the next train. There are stories to be written but my pen is out of ink. So I sip my cocoa and watch the snowflakes fall like angels, humming a carol for them as they drift and drift away.