She walks into the coffee shop at the same time every day, never a hair out of place, dressed with care. Her steps are deliberate, delicate, and as she orders her voice comes out in gentle whisps, confirming the belief that she could simple be carried away by a strong wind or a careless heart. 

People who have been broken, truly broken, possess qualities unique to only their kind. They seem almost like smudges of people— like the lines of their heart have literally been blurred, bruised for the entire world to see. It’s a deeply tragic sight to behold and yet, there’s almost a beauty to it.

This woman was one such person. She carries her vanilla latte to a corner table and plucks a notebook out of her oversized purse. She gently taps her pen to the book and gazes out the window. She appears to be waiting for something… an idea? A friend? A lover? She presses her pen to the page briefly and then pauses, pen midair, as if afraid to fully commit to her thought. She resumes tapping and looking out the window, biting down slightly on her lower lip in concentration. The door opens letting in a breeze. It blows her hair around her face. 

I wonder what her story is. Maybe she, like me, is an aspiring writer. Maybe she’s an artist. Maybe she’s just lonely. Her fingers are naked. I find some solace in the fact that even a woman as beautiful as she can be alone. It makes me feel like less of a failure. There is solidarity in the lack of luster on our fingers. 

I suppose that it is entirely possible that she isn’t alone though. Maybe she’s just unmarried, maybe she’s in a wonderfully successful relationship and when she goes home tonight her partner will be waiting, ring in pocket, to make her the happiest woman in the world (at least for a brief moment). Perhaps tomorrow she’ll come in with a three carat Tacori sparkler on her hand and then I’ll be reminded that I am, again, horribly off track. 

But for now, this nameless woman is a sister of sorts, we are together in our aloneness. And for this, I am thankful.