sitting at a battered table next to the gloomy street-lit window. gazing into the glass obscured by steam of beverages, painted text, and cigarette smoke. in the left corner there is a girl with dark hair and delicately chapped lips. our weary eyes keep locking as if by serendipity, and it's as though we know a secret that no other could grasp. we don't. that's just the spell of these places. you could fall in love with anyone.