She smiled—an angel, I swear.
We spoke like echoes of old laughter,
our coffees worlds apart, yet drawn close.

She, gorgeous. Me, just me.
She liked my style; I liked her everything.
By dusk, Italian wines and pasta await—

I don't eat pasta, but for her, why not?
Perhaps I'll dine my nerves on wine,
sip fate like a beautiful accident.

Life beautiful mystery
Unfolding in the most curious ways.