I noticed him right away through the window. He came from around the corner wearing ripped and baggy jeans far below his waistline, held tight with a green and yellow belt. His black shirt, possibly one size too small, left enough space for a perfect view of his underwear. He was the epitome of youth, a scruffy, hung-over Adonis. Under normal circumstances, he would have blended in perfectly with the other disenchanted college students who flock to coffee shops. In fact, I only remember what he was wearing because it stood out in stark contrast against what he was carrying; behind his back he was holding asmall white teddy bear and two large pink carnations, stems wrapped delicately with tissue paper. Gifts which he presented to the woman behind the counter.

There’s something comforting about watching other people express their love for one another. It’s a reminder of the good still left in this world. Unabashed, I listened to their conversation, expecting either a request for forgiveness or a happy birthday message. Instead, from what I could piece together, the gift was actually more along the lines of a thank you note for an exceptional one-night stand. Apparently, he was a true romantic.

Years ago I considered myself a hopeless romantic but at some point, I finally realized the difference between love songs and real life. A combination of age related maturity and a string of relationship ending badly reduced me to what I would call a healthy romantic. I suppose it’s only fair to say, they actually reduced me to a cynic, but out of that cynicism grew a healthy romantic.