Sweater Weather

In the dog days of July,
she sat alone sipping coffee
at a small cafe in the hills.
She stared out of the window
or perhaps
only at the faint reflections
casting on the glass.
Her coffee was steaming
and sweater looked warm.
I was hot.
A kind of panicked hot that
I could only fight by fabricating
stories of this girl's life.
Her skinny body's ability
to stay cool amongst the heat
left me in bitter bewilderment.
I ordered my coffee too,
plenty of sugar
plenty of ice
and plopped awkwardly
in the seat to her side.
Alone as she was,
but maybe less so in that
I had already spent some time
knowing her in my mind.
Minutes of silence and the occasional
meeting of eyes led to simple
conversations.
She was friendlier than I imagined;
full of life and full of vigor.

She took a large
gulp of coffee followed by
an early-morning stretch.
The kind where you lift your arms
toward the heavens
and close your eyes,
with an accompanying grunt of relief
that we all seem to make.
It's a good feeling, that.
Her sleeves pulled down a bit
in the midst,
revealing scars that spoke
perhaps
of trauma, pain, confusion.
They looked old mostly,
but still something that
any reasonable human would gasp at
involuntarily and insensitively.

Yet another incorrect variable
in my exposition.

She noticed my stares and hers
grew pale and grim,
How could it not?
It seemed I had managed to
suck the life right out of her face.
She abruptly covered her arms
with fabric once more.
I could hear the frenzied words
racing around her mind.
Mine much the same.
She didn't know what to say.
Who I was to her, anyway?
Just a stranger in a shop that
saw too much.
Someone promoting her to
wear a sweater again tomorrow.
Her eyes appeared glossy and
mouth propped slightly ajar.
I couldn't possibly say anything,
could I?
We were locked in a stalemate
of each other's discomfort.
On impulse,
I grabbed the knife she had used
to cut her pastry
and sliced my flesh.
It was dull, but blood pooled
to the surface of my skin
and dripped slowly downwards.
She seemed even more confounded
than before.
"This bleeds now, but tomorrow it will not"
I suggested, with a naive
attempt at wisdom.
Her mouth formed a smirk, but glance remained wide with caution.
I spoke of my plans at the beach,
she spoke of hers at the theater.
It was a hot day, afterall.