Trevor Romain’s Thought Bubbles

2am. The street was empty. It had just rained. Steam rose quietly from the subway grating. Purple and green neon reflected intermittently on the wet black pavement.

I could have sworn that I heard a wailing saxophone in the distance. But that could have been inside my head. I’m a bit of a romantic.

I noticed you the minute I walked into the Midnight Cafe. Perhaps it’s because you were the only person in there at the time. The waitress was fooling around with the short order cook in the back. I knew. I could hear giggling.

I thought the sound of the door would make you look up. It didn’t.

I had two cups of coffee before you wiped your eves with the white paper napkin. Only then did I realize you were crying.

I had so much time to console you. I’m a good listener.

I stood up.

That’s when he came rushing in. I was about to rescue you from the depths of your depression with a witty opener that took me about 15 minutes to compose. I think I was going to say something profound like, “Are you okay?”

Too late.

He grabbed your arm. I thought he was going to hit you. I had visions of shattered glass and broken tables. He pulled you towards himself so violently that I thought he’d crack every bone in your body.

I closed my eyes.

Nothing.

I opened them again and saw him sobbing on your shoulder. You kissed his tears and stroked his hair. You left in his arms.

I paid for your coffee.

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