A Note

We order coffee. His black, mine milky and sweet with vanilla cream. We stare out the window, watching  people waiting for the early bus. A woman with a little girl eating cereal out of plastic tupperware. A shaggy haired man with burnt skin clutching a plastic bag.
I watch steam rise from his cup, and swirl the smooth liquid in mine. His green eyes are empty as a pair of children run past the window. 
I wonder what he's thinking but am too afraid to ask. 
I want to touch his hand where it lays beside his cup. Fingers bent, one nail lightly scratching the cheap table in small circles. I watch it's path, squeezing my hands in to fists to keep from reaching out, to keep from letting myself know what it would feel like to have my skin against his.