They say romance is dead. They say that all that there is to it is the intimacy that comes with romance. That, when someone sees the street littered with a pair clinging together like paper mâché, certain it was already that they made that act in their private world. Or public, God forbid.

They say romance is dead. They say those romance I see are but a façade of something selfishly attained by the human being. That, everything is but a fake wall unpierceable by the naked eye, yet accessible by the open mind. We never saw; we knew.

They say romance is dead.

Or was it?

Part of being single in this time and era is the fact that you are being surrounded with couples here and there, cuddling and kissing as if they never were. It was something that makes my eyes sore, my face unrecognizable, my presence absent. Their world and only theirs alone against my grounded one. The euphoria that came with their so-called love flips my intestines from the ground up. The most I can do is clench both my teeth and hand at every lovebird that pass by.

Envious? You could infer such emotion. Jealous? Plausible, but no. Sickened. That is the word in the tip of my tongue.

Yet I could not put on a face, or my job would definitely bid me adieu.

A minute left on the clock. I know you can do this, mate. Get yourself together.

My whole body wanted to slump to the yellow counter. Never mind our little miss Roxie get another probation from the boss himself.

The bell rang, yet it was not from the alien-shaped clock above my head, no. It was from the door meters away from me. There it procured a man wearing a sweatshirt in the middle of a summer May. No judgment, but that’s ironic.

“Welcome to The Espresso,” a warm greeting escaped from my mouth. A hint of distaste . . . maybe not so much it would raise one’s brow. “How may I help you?”

The man, height as tall as mine, hair as thin as my patience with his slothfulness, roamed his eyes for a bit, not minding the cashier in front of him literally welcoming his dead presence. Should I report him back to Earth, just to see if his mind flew across elsewhere? Yet it was but not anymore necessary as he fixed his glance toward me.

Those eyes. Somehow, it felt familiar. Green as the fresh maple leaves of a lovely spring.

Nope. Not familiar at all. I sighed in defeat, picking up a smile from the pieces of me that broke down in shame. “Welcome to The Espresso, monsieur. How may I help you?”

At last, his footsteps went closer to the counter, my person as his sole focus. He was daring the fire to let him walk the walk. He looked at me like I’m stupid enough to not know the answer to his question; I’m not stupid enough to not know the answer to his question.

There was this invisible wall that set me apart from him. Usually they call it silence; I call it something-you-don’t-wanna-spoil-or-it-will-spill wall. Whatever that it, boy sure that fucking A/C can’t lower down the suppressed tension I am sensing. And not to mention, he is the type of person that never loved being asked for. From his position, he plays no games, goes straight to the point. Probably hadn’t touched a single joint.

“Woodsworth.” He paused. His gaze slowly ambled to the workspace. Those eyes glanced back at me again. “Do you know someone named Kaizer Licht Woodsworth?”