sketch

There was something familiar about her. Familiar and alluring. Alluring, perhaps, because she did seem so familiar. Seeing her now, for the first time, didn't feel like the first time at all. He felt like he'd seen her before--somewhere, in some other time. It was a trite feeling--one he'd expect to find in a romantic comedy (films that were neither romantic or funny)--and he acknowledged this, but he still felt something profound stirring up in his being and he completely indulged this feeling to its full sap-flooded limit, letting it consume him wholly.

She got up and sat down at his table. She was smoking a cigarette--in a way he wanted to imitate, in a way that made him forget entirely that he was already a smoker, himself. It was attractive enough to make him want to pick up the habit all over again, from the beginning, when it was still a fairly new and unexplored sensation. He lit a cigarette--half out of nervousness (to have something occupying his hands--a distraction just in case) and half because he wanted to feel what she must have felt, emanating the essential lifeforce of all mankind at the other end of the table, the smoke almost an extension of her physical self which he couldn't separate from her radiant energy.