The Scarf (rough draft)

Finally have an idea where this is going…

The Scarf

The woolen scarf was so voluminous that it nearly obscured her face, wrapping round and round her neck before dangling dangerously close to the lip of a coffee mug perched rather precariously on the arm of the sofa on which she sat. It was the kind of scarf meant to hide the person behind it. Anyone walking in might see her quaint, pointed nose with simple tortoiseshell glasses in danger of sliding off the tip, but they wouldn’t see the way she seemed to nestle back in the worn red corduroy sofa as if trying to fade into the furniture of the coffee shop.

An immaculate businesswoman striding purposefully forward to order her nonfat, no-whip, barely caffeinated milk with two shots of espresso would see the haphazard bun of hair, a brown dark enough to pass for black, pushed back by a colorful tribal headband, but she wouldn’t see the worn book of poetry by William Butler Yeats lying in the young woman’s lap, nearly concealed by the folds of her scarf, or the way she slowly turned the pages as if savoring them like truffles.

A harried barista, already late for work, would be too busy tying on her apron as she walked through the door to notice the girl who regularly occupied the left cushion of the red corduroy couch, instead counting the heads bowed in attention to cell phones while standing in line for a quick cappuccino.
Other regulars at the small coffee shop would only count a familiar figure without questioning the young woman’s solitude or her lack of technological devices in a place where most conversation was tapped across a keypad rather than spoken though physical lips.
But a musician breezing through for a quick macchiato might catch a glimpse, though, of the way she soundlessly mouthed words, dipping her chin into the serpentine folds of rough wool. The fellow artist might pause and wonder, noticing the well-thumbed tome, how the young woman had acquired such a beautiful leather-bound copy of Yeats’ early works.

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