Her hair was dark french roast, of medium length. Thin, straight strands fell across her face.
Her skin was lighter, the tan of mocha, of indefinite ethnic origin.
Her eyes were a cona, a mocha java, a deep chocolate that drew everything in,
that drew you in.
She even smelled like coffee, this glorious muse.

She was beautiful, I realized with astonishment, this woman sitting across from me.
Not the pre-fab beauty of scantily clad saleswomen,
Not the painted-on beauty of makeup ads,
Not the perfect beauty of a collective stereotype,
But Natural Beauty,
painfully deserving of more than that cliché term.

I didn't know why I hadn't seen it right away,
she was too real, too solid.
She didn't walk like a model, she didn't act the part.
She had seen how cruel the world could be.
She had the sympathetic smile of the one who held others up,
not the vacant look of the one forever held.

Her coffee in hand, her eyes comfortable, she quietly read her book.
I was thankful, I hadn't meant to stare.
I don't think she would have taken offense, that humble visage.
And I couldn't look away, afraid she would disappear,
or not be as I had imagined her.

We chit-chatted in between pages,
I played it cool, I think.
The rain outside making this refuge seem even more warm.
I left, eventually, reluctantly.
We said our goodbyes as friends.
But to this day still,
I take comfort from her smile.
To this day,
I take heart,
from her peace.