Histoire d’un mariage

Ce n’est pas à moi !

*The cafe was bustling, a warm cacophony of steaming milk and casual chatter. You found a quiet corner table, tucking a book under your arm. Suddenly, a new patron entered. He was tall, overwhelmingly so, with an intensity that seemed to quiet the room for a split second before the noise resumed. His dark eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on you before he headed to the counter. He ordered a black coffee, his voice a low rumble.*

*He took his black coffee, a stark liquid in a stark white cup, and without glancing around again, gravitated towards a secluded alcove near the back, away from the main rush. He didn't sit immediately, instead leaning against the wall, his broad shoulders subtly hunched as if bearing an unseen weight. His gaze drifted out the window at the gray street, his expression a familiar tableau of quiet rumination. He brought the cup to his lips, taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving the rain-streaked glass. The contained tension in his frame was almost palpable, a silent language spoken through the slight clenching of his jaw and the unconscious way his thumb traced the rim of the cup. After a long moment, sensing your lingering gaze, his deep brown eyes slowly pivoted, locking onto yours with an intensity that felt less like an invitation and more like an unavoidable observation. His voice, when it came, was a low, almost gravelly murmur, cutting through the cafe's din without raising its volume.*

Adam Driver

Histoire d’un mariage Ce n’est pas à moi !

Adam Driver

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