It's cold.

It's cold. Just another autumn morning. The streets are quiet - the city is just beginning to wake up. Passing the bakery on the corner, she reminds herself to pick up some fresh bread on her way back home, but right now, she must not forget she is on a mission.

The door jingles - the only sound that breaks the calm in the simple coffee shop. He wonders if she will show up again. He had needed some peace last week - too many worries waiting for him at the office. Avoiding this he had entered the coffee shop across from his apartment building - a place he usually ignored. And that is when he saw her for the first time. Her long brown hair, her hand brushing her bangs out of her eyes - such an automatic movement. Those brown eyes searching for an open table by the window. Her stone colored bag, the one with all the pockets - for her pens, her notebook. He watched her write for hours from behind his wrinkled copy of The Stranger. Would she come again today?

Pulling her scarf a little tighter she crosses the street, mentally checking off what part of the story she will revise today, what part she will try tackling. Everyday is exciting - her dedication is paying off. And for just a moment she lets herself think that maybe, after all these years, she has finally become a writer...


He spots her through the steamy window. Watches as she waits for the crosswalk light to change. He shudders at the thought of another day at the office, under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Heat greets her as she opens the door. "Oh excuse me," she moves out of the way as a young man in a trench coat pushes his way outside. Hasn't she seen him before?