The girl at the coffee shop.

The coffee shop is small, almost secretive, tucked into a corner of 3-star hotel in Douala at Sable. 7-8 tables total on two different floors. There are bookshelves along the walls with some old French books, a few English novels, some wood samples, no one ever opens/touches - and the air always carries that warm scent of espresso, a little buzzling sound in the background of Dla Traffic. I spend most days here now. After years of working from my jingili apartment, pacing the same 2 rooms until the walls feel like they were closing in, this place became my office. To be honest, the Wi-Fi could be better, the coffee is strong, and the owner doesn’t mind if you stay long enough (unless you consume atleast 2.5k a day haha). Then this fine Miss. I'd assume she has the same problem working form home like me. She always sits upstairs. Every time she comes in, she climbs those stairs without looking down, her walk slow and unhurried, hips moving like she’s listening to music only she can hear. It’s the kind of walk that makes the whole room pause for half a second, even if no one admits it. And then there’s her lips - full, deep brown lips that look soft, always carrying a light layer of shiny lip-gloss. I noticed them the first day she walked in, three months ago, and I’ve been noticing them ever since. I never speak to her. I’ve decided I never will. The closest we’ve ever come to a conversation was the day she ask for her charger plugged into the outlet beside my chair . She said "Excuse me", bag in hang parking up her things. "Excuse me", a light tap on my shoulder, couldn't hear her as i had earphones on. "You sure zone out in your music", she said, voice low and warm, like someone who’s used to being heard even when she whispers. “Could you pull that charger for me? The black one.”I reached down, unplugged it, handed it over without meeting her eyes too long. Our fingers didn’t touch. She said “merci.” as she walked away. That was it. But the sound of her voice stayed with me all day, smooth. She works on a laptop, earbuds in, occasionally sipping from a tall glass of something cold or an expresso depending on the time of day. Men notice her more than she'd want - those big papas mostly, or guys who think confidence is volume. They climb the stairs, try a line, lean in too close. Every time, she gives them this look: not angry, not rude, just cool and flat, like she’s turning down the brightness on the world. Her beautiful smile - the one that only flashes when she reads something funny on her phone or listens a voice note from who i'd assume it's her best friend ; the smile disappears completely. The men retreat fast. I wonder if she’d give me that same stare if I ever tried. So I don’t try. Instead, I sit with my laptop open to work, stealing glances. When she looks and our eyes meet for a second, I dash my eyes to the nearest bookshelf like I was just trying to pick out the "LAROUSSE" for my next read. Heart racing every time, like I’ve been caught doing something worse than looking. I tell myself this is the last day I’ll let myself think about her this much. Then tomorrow comes and I’m back at the same table, ordering the same 'café au lait', waiting to see if she’ll walk in wearing that a light dress again, or the faded black shorts that fit just right. She always does.And I always stay quiet.Some stories, I guess, are better left unfinished.