Watching

    I never liked going there, but the Java Shoppe was close to school.  It was always too busy, and I found it hard being alone in such a crush of people. I've always been shy, unsure of myself, so afraid of rejection that I would never be the first person to speak. 
              Tuesday was different.  I guess most people stayed home because of the weather.  The rain had turned the entire city gray, and the wind guaranteed the failure of even the largest, sturdiest umbrellas.  So, it was easy to find an empty booth.  Looking around the coffee shop, I found a table back in the corner where a person could sit and read without seeming so conspicuously alone. 
         He entered the shop wearing a rumpled shirt and jeans that looked as if he were wearing them for the second day. He had a laptop under his arm and a tired look about his eyes.  I'd never seen him there before. Who was he? Another student after a caffeine buzz?  A young teacher's assistant? I could hear him ordering his coffee.  Venti, black.  Nothing fancy or frilly.  Just a man’s coffee.  That seemed to fit him.  His disheveled clothing covered what promised to be a thoroughly masculine physique. I could see strength in his arms.  His hair, curly and unkempt, framed a strong, stubbly face. Something about him made me want to speak, something that was completely unlike me.
         Carrying his coffee to a table nearby, he sat within sight.  I watched him open up the laptop and begin a two-fingered tapping on the keys.  Quickly, he was engrossed.  Other caffeine junkies wandered by, but he never seemed to take notice.  What was he doing? A research paper? A thesis?  Perhaps he was in some creative writing class. My curiosity taunted me. Just what was he doing.  I began to imagine ways to find out.          
              Just go get a napkin, I told myself.  Yeah, walk right by him.  See what he’s tapping out so single-mindedly. 
         No.  Can’t do it.  He might notice me, I thought and went back to watching him from behind the rim of my cup.
         Twenty minutes passed.  The latte in front of me had grown cold—four bucks wasted.  He was on his third cup of the black stuff, still working hard.  Every now and then he paused, bit his lower lip, and pounded the backspace.  His shoulders took on a frustrated slump and he sighed quietly.  His work must have been frustrating him.  Whatever it was, it consumed his attention.  He hadn’t even felt my gaze, and I was openly staring by then--my shyness forgotten as he worked.
                I wondered, what would happen if I waved? Would he notice? Would he look at me with disdain.  There I sat, plain, nothing special, watching.
              He glanced up.  Our eyes met for a moment, and then I looked down at my notebook.  Oh God! I'd been caught.  What should I do?  Venturing another look, I saw that he had turned his attention back to his work.  See, I was right. There was no way he'd notice me. My face burned red.  What had I been thinking? 
                Hurriedly, I gathered up my things and went to the door.  Daring one more glance, I turned and saw his eyes following me. Paused at the door, I didn't know what to do.  Instinct said, "Rush out!  Go before he laughs."  But I just stood there staring at him until he frowned, looked back down, and began typing again.
              I stood on the sidewalk, allowing my embarrassment wash over me along with the frigid rain.  What must he have thought of me? To him, I probably looked like some crazy woman who had nothing better to do than stare at strangers in coffee shops. I hoped I never saw him again.
              Later that night, I arrived a few minutes late for my new psychology class.  I tentatively opened the door, scanning the room for a friendly face to sit beside.  My eyes were drawn to the front of the room, and there he was--the man from the coffee shop--standing behind the lectern.
              I felt the mortification all the way to my toes.  I had to take this class.  It was required.  Backing out the door and running down the hall wasn't an option.  I walked head down into the room, taking the only seat left--one on the front row.
              My face grew warm, as he announced to the class that day’s topic: the early signs of stalking.