Pajarita Mia

He's forty-two. And he sits in a coffee shop on an obscure corner of an up-and-coming chunk of Philadelphia. He sips coffee that takes him back to Brazil or Paraguay, he's not sure which. The aroma steams into his nostrils before he draws an air-cooled sip, like a connoisseur might quaff wine. This sip tranported him up the continent to Guyana, oddly where he's never been.

His focus is off. Blame the waif. She stands behind the register, many body lengths away. The path is obstructed by many other patrons, a field of faces looking this way and that, sipping at ceramic cups and coaxing the chill from their limbs and digits. Surely another is watching this wonder. Such beauty cannot escape the entire world.

The patron she now serves is in this thirties, firm up top with thick arms under designer leather, professional haircut, strong jaw, but still too old for her. Her dark eyelashes bat as she talks. Her bangs play at the peak of her forehead and the rest of her reddish tresses flow to introduce her slender, subtle figure. Something like delight glows from beneath her fair skin. Innocence, perhaps.

"Excuse me," says an intruder. Stephen blinks dryly and turns to the oaf lurching into the periphery. It's a young man -- hair approaching dreadlocks, just washed too much. He's a Tiger Woods' blend of ethnicity but from a much thicker tree. The radiance of his clothing harkends the Jamaican tropics. Interesting in his own right, but still an intruder. "Using this chair, man?" he finishes.

No, boy, you can have it, he says in a shake of his head. Stephen's wife uses no voice either in her mutual approval. Her hands remain cupped around her coffee. The tilt of her cup indicates she has consumed her beverage with greater diligence. She will warm to conversation soon, and the window will be closed.

The empty chair is now stolen. The distant waif had floated over it like a pixie. He wanted her to come and sit in it, on her own invitation. Come to query the patronage on the service and quality of the beans. He wanted opportunity to explore her as well, like an enchanting coastline, scattered with seashells and ocean wonders. What are your aspirations? he'd ask. Art, she's say. I like to sing by a crackling fire. Her slight shoulders would shrug to embrace her neck. Do you play guitar? No, she laughs. I like to hear my voice. I'm sure it's lovely. It warms me, she says. Her head sinks with the shy admission.

Do you sing country? Stephen's wife asks. It's an awkward question which makes the waif laugh and her eyes dart away. But Roxanne is showing interest, which eases Stephen's disquiet with the private fascination. The interest is now shared. Together they can marvel at her like a daughter. The waif has stayed clothed, though more thinly -- almost to an angel white.

Stephen looks down at his coffee at last. His face grows long as he wonders what he has lost, what he has yet to gain. Youth, surely. But what salve does this waif carry in her pocket, what healing cream? She has not yet found the disappointment of this world. Her eyes still sparkle. She still has legs to dance and voice to sing. Her load is light, responsibilities few. It is her time to frolic, to thrive, to dream. If her fortune persists, she may shape the future, rather than reality shape her.

This is what Stephen wants to revel in. He wants to fight the demon that throws ash on such wonder. He tries to keep the cage door open. Sing, little bird, sing. Unaccompanied, share your warm song to the cold and aging world.

He sucks down the dregs of his brown cup, where the sugar has settled. Roxanne's cup is in its saucer. Her hands are crossed neatly before her. She has closed her eyes, slivers of radiance escaping the corners. She has found her warmth.

Stephen, too, has found his.