She sat across the table from me in the coffee house. I didn't know her name yet. We had not come in together, and I had just sat down because she looked up as I walked by. The eye contact--it seemed to indicate that I could sit down without offending her, without scaring her, without making myself too uncomfortable or noticeable. So I sat with her. For a long time, she didn't speak. She wasn't smoking, but a cloud hung over her hair like a halo. I guessed it was from all the other persons smoking cigarettes in there. She didn't seem to mind; she didn't cough or rub her eyes. I hate smoke, and my eyes were burning from her halo.

I sat with her for about ten minutes before she spoke. She said her name almost in a whisper. I barely caught it. She said her name again, and I smiled. Her name was June. 1 remember what her name was. But, I also remember her face and the halo of smoke around her hair. Her eyes were brown, and clear. She did not wear glasses, as I recall. Her eyebrows were natural--you know, not plucked out and lined with pencil. Her hair, besides the halo, was a light brown and not particularly distinctive, but long and a little bit stringy. She fiddled with it often, twisting it with the index finger of her left hand. Her lips were very thin, and curved upward at the corners even though she did not smile. Her teeth were small, though straight. She said her name again, and I must have looked up after smiling, because she said that it was good to meet me finally.

I was momentarily confused. I did not know her at all. She was not the slightest bit familiar to me. Yet, she seemed to have seen me before.

A waiter came to the table, and asked me if I wanted to order. I glanced at the menu stuck between salt and pepper shakers. I took it, opened it, and quickly read the entrees. I pointed to the mushrooms and said that I'd have an order of them and a cola of some kind. The waiter asked if that was all I wanted. I am always taken aback by that question. If I wanted something more, I certainly would order it. Although I did not say this, the woman across from me suddenly laughed rather sympathetically and smiled broadly. I looked at her eyes. I swear that they twinkled.

While waiting for the mushrooms and cola, I looked around the coffeehouse which was absolutely full of people, noise, and smoke. Peanut shells lined the edge of every table and almost the entire floor. Red candles burned on the tables throughout the room, and at two foot intervals along the wooden bar. Behind the bar was the usual assortment of coffees, teas, chocolates, and mugs. Not one stool was empty. People were drinking cappuccinos and expressos and lattes. Almost everyone was smoking, stubbing out butts in overflowing ashtrays.

I wasn't drinking coffee or smoking; neither was she. I didn't talk to her while I waited for my order. I'd sat there because no other seat was available when I walked by her table. She was at a rather large round table with four or maybe even five chairs. She didn't actually appear alone. She didn't have that look. Instead, she seemed to be waiting.

When I came through the crowd, I caught her eyes following me. She was definitely watching me come toward her. She didn't smile, but I thought she wouldn't mind if I joined her. She almost seemed to be inviting me. Of course, I wasn't sure. I've never been adept at determining others' intentions. It's rather difficult for me to know what others want. Other persons expectations are extremely confusing to me, to be perfectly honest. I don't know when or even how to enter a conversation being carried on by more than one or two people. If it is four or five people already talking, I've got little idea how to get into the conversation. Intrusion is what it feels like. Perhaps that's right. Maybe that's how everyone else feels, too. But I've no idea.

Anyway, she was inviting. I was certain she would not care if I sat down. I was nearly sure that she wanted me to sit down at her table. She was waiting.

After the first ten minutes, and her introduction of herself, I told her my name. She didn't say anything unusual beyond being glad to finally meet me, but I could tell that she already knew me.

"Have we met before?" I asked her when my mushrooms arrived. My cola was missing, and I was using my eyes to search out my waiter. Since I wasn't looking at her when I asked, I didn't know what her eyes were saying. She softly answered, and I missed what she said because of the noise. I saw my waiter, raised my hand to wave, and yelled out. He caught my wave, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in response. I watched him. He adjusted his black waistcoat, and finally turned to walk toward our table.

"Yes?" he said. "You forgot my drink?" "What was it?" The woman across from me said, "A cola." The waiter ignored her, saying instead to me, "A cola?" "Yes," I answered. The waiter nodded, and walked toward the bar. I looked at the woman, whose hair was still outlined in smoke. I asked, "Have we met before?"

Her nod was accompanied by a wry twist to one corner of her already upturned lips. Her eyes did that twinkling again. I couldnŐt place her. Where had we met? She was definitely playing with me, and my level of discomfort was rising. I shifted uneasily in the chair, and avoided looking at her face. She was familiar.

She said, "A long time. It's been a very long time." She was twisting her hair into a tight little knot on the left.

The waiter arrived with my cola. He set it down in front of my mushrooms which I hadn't begun to eat. "They okay?", he wanted to know.

"Sure, "I replied.

He stood there a few seconds, then turned away. She said, "You don't remember."

I shook my head, almost feeling sad or maybe a bit embarrassed that I couldn't recall her. Already I'd forgotten her name. I never remembered names anymore. I remembered eyes.

She began again to speak softly, so that I had to strain to hear her words. "I have a small mark on my right breast. It's a rose."

I felt my eyes widen. What an oddity for this stranger to tell me this coincidence. I also had a rose, pink and delicate on the upper side of my left breast. I looked again at her eyes. She was familiar. I began to twist my hair with my index finger.

I knew who she was; at least, I felt like I did. She was staring at me, waiting for me to figure it out. She'd obviously been waiting a long time for a chance meeting with me. She'd not known my name or where I lived; but, unlike me, she had known of my existence. I hadn't been aware of hers.

I asked, "How'd ya know?"

"I knew when I saw you just now. When you came in, and our eyes met. I really don't know what tipped me off, but I knew."

"I know now," I said sheepishly, afraid of being made a fool. "I hope we're talking about the same thing."

"Me, too."

Val Evans-Kreil