I sit alone. Same coffee house, same table. Instead of the usual herbal tea, however, I’m sipping an espresso. My head hurts from thinking so much.

The empty chatter of the mindless drones comforts me tonight, in a sickening kind of way. Being here relieves part of my isolation and, while I’ll never be a part of their world, tonight I find solace in their company.

A young lady behind me orders an ex-presso. I grin slightly, open my book. How I identify with Henry David Thoreau. Before I finish half a page, however, something changes.

A presence.

My eyes and ears detect nothing, but it’s here. I know.

The door to my left opens as a maroon turtleneck with faded Calvin Kleins and low pumps parts the crowd with a smile. At the bar she orders a mocha cappuccino, then changes that to an espresso.

I become aware of a feeling in my chest, just under my ribs. Not a heavy feeling, rather one of something trying to get out. Deep breath. Still there. Worse.

Love at first sight? Soul mate? No such thing.

Her ocean of auburn waves sparkles under the smoky light. She scans the room with deep, brown eyes and a stare that could melt steel. Her eyes meet mine.

I pull my eyes back to the page, but I can’t see the words. The pounding in my chest, now a battering ram, floods my ears.

I clear my throat and take a sip of espresso. Tasteless. Come on, Henry David, speak to me. Nothing. Nothing, that is, except the pounding in my head which prevents me from focusing on anything else.

I conclude the pounding will continue until I make a move.

I don’t see her until she’s halfway to my table, unlit cigarette in her left hand, seductively innocent smile. Impossible to breathe. To think. To stop my lips, hands, and knees from quivering like a schoolboy who’s been sent to the principal’s office for a thrashing on his very first day of school.

“Got a light?” she says, in typical movie star fashion. At this moment my X-ray vision kicks in, and millions of bits of information reveal themselves to me in half a second.

Beneath her sweater and black bra, I see a tiny dragon tattoo just above her left breast. Deeper, I see her internal organs and blood pumping through her body. Her lungs show only minor damage from cigarette smoking.

Still deeper, I see past the bones and muscles, and into that part of her that can only be termed as soul.

My X-ray vision, knowing no time or space, transports me one week into the future. To Milano’s, quite possibly the nicest Italian restaurant on the planet. Tony Bennett in the background, merlot in my glass, and her looking at me from across the table.

Six months later, I awaken to the scent of patchouli and jasmine. Her smile only inches from my eyes. Her lips fall softly to my shoulder. Much passion follows.

The next five years reveal themselves to me in a flash, and contain images of my proposal of marriage on a high cliff in the mountains, the building of our dream house, and the births of our two children.

Not long thereafter, my friends stop coming by. When I talk to them on the phone, they’re always in the middle of something and can’t talk. I tell myself that we’re all getting older, with more responsibilities like families and stuff. There’s something else, though.

My friend Jay enlightens me with some ugly words. I want to punch him in the mouth.

Words, however, lead to suspicion. Suspicion to observation, then to investigation. Investigation leads to truth, and with the beauty of an F5 tornado tearing through unsuspecting Suburbia, my eyes rip open. Burning.

Somewhere in my neighborhood, a woman walks into her bedroom. Her husband lies in their bed, but not alone. The woman is Jill, wife of my best friend, Kyle. You can guess who Kyle’s bedmate might be.

The next two years find me without wife, house, or kids. I try a new diet: Jim Beam, Coke, and Valium. My pain soon vanishes, along with everything else in my life.

A figure sits on a park bench. A smelly bum. Alone. Cold January morning. Last puff of cigarette. He looks at the empty whiskey bottle at his feet.

The cold steel of the barrel in his mouth tastes like relief. Peace. Sweeter than any sugar. A smile. Then . . .

With a slight jolt I find myself back in the coffee shop. Clarity. Pounding in my head and chest is gone. Hands, knees, and lips steady.

“Sorry, ma’am, I don’t smoke,” I say, as I return to the serenity of Walden Pond, vowing never again to order an espresso.