Dear Someone

I used to think you were crazy.
I really did.
You'd sit in the corner,
headphones on,
music loud enough for me to hear it over the other cafe noise,
and you would read.

"How can you do that?" I would ask.
"How can you concentrate on Victorian Literature with the Beatles blasting in your head?"

And you'd look up, instinctively, because you couldn't have heard me.
You'd get that look on your face,
point to your ear, shake your head and mouth "What?"

And I would wave my hand and sigh -
a much-repeated motion which you always took to mean "Never mind"
but really meant "You're ridiculous"
and we'd go back to our respective books,
newspapers,
crossword puzzles,
bits of paper left over from the day.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the words,
not moving,
not even to see the cup you always easily found -
to sip your mocha chai latte.
"It mellows out the clove." You would say.

And I'd watch you read.
I thought you were crazy.