Coffee.

It is the color of your hair, a deep brown that cascades in light waves over your shoulders and down your back. It is coffee without cream, nearly black, but holds more warmth then flat black ever could.

Chocolate.

It is the color of your eyes, a shade or two lighter than your hair. Dark chocolate, perhaps one of a high quantity of cacao. They, too, are warm, and disappear in crescents when you smile.

Cream.

It is the color of your skin, pale in contrast with your coffee hair and chocolate eyes. But it suits you in a way, all of them coming together in a perfect blend.

He is entranced by you, every day at promptly four in the afternoon, presumably after school, when you order a small mocha and sits at the furthermost table from the entrance and do your homework, or, when your have none, read some sort of book—they vary from time to time.

It’s quite ironic, he decides, that you order that, because a mocha is a mixture of coffee, chocolate, and cream.

Just like you.