Floral Crowns, John Green, and Glass Heels.

So there was this girl who sat at the table diagonally across from mine. She was all swagged out in her hipster shades and floral crown, sipping on her fancy latte as she flipped through her John Green paperback. Summer felt sticky at my back and the wind was thick atop the old pine and polish rosewood of the cafe's decor. The scene was set for us, under the dim studio lights of the college cafe; the atmosphere bled sophistication, culture, and class. With each glance I took, I would get lost in her silhouette. I followed her fingers as she brushed her dip-dyed hair behind her ear, traced the outline of her lips as they pressed against the lid of her cup, and reveled in the beauty of her gaze as she scanned the pages of her novel; her almond-shaped eyes gleamed with expressive irises that colored a dark hazel beneath the glare of ty one-dollar light bulbs. And little did she know, I was sneaking glances at perfection, stealing glimpses of flawlessness.

However, with my last glance, we locked eyes, and embarrassed, all she could do was look away and smile surreptitiously. I caught her gaze as she glanced back at me, then down at her book, and she kept a smile, soft as if I "caught her in the act". So, half trying to be suave, and half trying to make the moment less awkward, I playfully (and painfully awkwardly) asked, "Excuse me, but are you flirting with me?"

She let out a laugh then that sounded of euphoric melodies and lilting harmonies, and I fought the urge to lift my pen and formulate a new composition. She closed her book with elegant fingers that waltzed along the torn paperback cover in a symphony of timid amiability, and with fingers rested on her temple, she tilted her head, leaned back into her chair, and smiled at me. She replied (quite wittily, might I add), "Quit playing. You've been staring at me since I walked in and we both know that." Her voice was slick like ambrosia and her timbre was rich with a dulcet alto that had me thinking back to my brother's old, untuned cello.

I was embarrassed, sure. And all I could do was look away and smile; I looked back at her, then down at my book, and kept that soft smile because I knew I was, well, caught in the act. In a very suave way though — that would have made any male with a superior complex envious of her smooth skills in conversation — she made the moment less awkward, gesturing artistically with her hands. "Come sit with me."

I accepted. We conversed.

I told her I was a student here (proudly mentioning my major in music production, to which in return, had made her chuckle serenely), and she told me she was a visitor. We talked about school, careers, and people. We talked about God, pies, performers at the upper west borough of Manhattan on 11th Avenue, art shows at the 3rd Street Promenade, bucket lists, Los Angeles, music, everything. Talking to her was like sharing ideas with someone close to you. You'd feel confident in speaking your mind, could always trust her response would be genuine and real. And she was incredible to be around. I mean, she had that high brow humor of the east-coast vibe, mixed in with that relaxed confidence of the Southern California style. Also, she was witty, quickly able to answer my questions before they were even asked.

She was the perfect marriage of class, beauty, and intellect. I thought I might have been in love, but I paused and mentally scolded myself for thinking like a lovesick .

As we talked, she wanted to know more. She told me in a sage-like voice, "People see you at your best, and you look like you're pretty well guarded. I'm far more interested in hearing about the things no one knows about. Tell me about your weaknesses, your flaws, and your imperfections." She just sat there, waiting for a response. With a heavy request like that, I paused; after gathering my thoughts, and fighting off a bit of hesitation, I slowly replied, reluctance gnawing at my throat that forced me into a cough; she felt compelled to lift her latte to my lips and I indulged myself in the smooth velvet of her skin as her hand brushed against mine in a tangle of awkward chuckles and simpering smirks.

"Well, I am far from the man many people think I am. In fact, I'm even farther from the man I hope to be. Me and God don't talk as much as we used to, and sometimes, I think I try to avoid him. I've been dishonest too many times, been hurtful too often, and I'm incredible selfish. My list of regrets stretches from here to the horizon. And worst of all, I try to make those close to me happy as often as I can because it's my way of apologizing in advance for the disappointment that'll eventually come."

I was a little astonished with myself because I never told anyone these things. In fact, I made an effort to ensure that this side of me would never be known. Yet, with all the skeletons bursting out of the closet, she looked at me with a gaze of empathy. She was proud of me — proud of my ability to come to terms with the fact that I was human. With courage I wasn't aware I had possessed at all, I asked, "How about you?"

In a ginger voice, she proceeded to tell me about her weaknesses, her flaws, and her imperfections, as if she wore the three on her sleeve. And for the first time that evening, I saw an honesty that washed away her quick wit and charm. She revealed to me a character so genuine and authentic, all my previous experiences of human interaction paled in comparison. When she finished her quasi-confessions, we kind of paused for a bit and stared at each other. There was a pregnant silence, but she was smiling, so I knew everything was still chill. We both kind of just rested in that moment, knowing something this real didn't happen very often.

Then her phone vibrated. After checking her text, she realized that she had places to go and people to see. She packed up her stuff, jotted down her number on the back of a napkin, folded it and passed it to me. Like a twisted Cinderella tale, at the of midnight, she called to me as she was five paces away from our table, "Sorry, but I gotta bounce." Devastated but understanding, I part with her with a friendly wave in lieu of a goodbye, unable to trust my voice would not waver. As she made her way down the boulevard, I opened the napkin, and it read:

"You're gonna change save the world one day. It was nice to meet you, and thanks for the honesty."

No number, no email address, nothing. It occurred to me that we knew of each other's greatest aspirations, and we knew of each other's demons. Yet ironically, we didn't even know each other's names. I looked out the window, and saw her walking towards the parking lot a block over. Close enough for me to admire, yet too far to chase down.

So there she was, this girl, all swagged out in her hipster shades and floral crown, sipping on her fancy latte as she walked away. The scene was set for us, under the dim lights of the city streets. She had an aura that bled sophistication, culture, and class. And with one last glance, I lost her silhouette as she stepped into her car and drove away. 

She was a great story, and sadly, that's all she'll ever be.