Quarks And Acorns Poem by anais vionet

It's Saturday morning. I'm at the acorn, my favorite coffee shop, on my iPad and deep in concentration. I'm time traveling back, to things seen and said, trying to create a story poem about recent happenings - or failing that - something quick and arbitrary.

I hear an "Ahem" and look up. A skinny, twenty-something man, with tousled black hair, clumsily dressed in drab browns and tans, was standing before me - a satchel over one shoulder and a coffee in hand. "May I join you? " He asked.

I looked around, there was only one other empty seat available, far at the back. "Sure, " I said, then, noticing my book bag filled the empty chair. I said "Sorry, " and moved it to the floor. He took a seat.

He introduces himself, "Peter, " he says.
"Anais, " I say, going back to my writing.
After a second he says, "What are you writing? "
"Poetry, " I answered, not looking up.
"So, something imaginary, " he said, it sounded condescending and irritating.
"Are you a student? " I asked, looking up to watch him settling in.
"Particle physics, " he says, cutting directly to the chase.
"Things too small to see, " I said. "Imaginary things, " I add a moment later, in revenge.
His mouth quirked, the suggestion of a smile dancing at the corners of his lips. He finished his coffee after a while and left. I saw him on campus a time or two after that - we would nod.

Then one thundering gray Saturday morning he was back. "Ahem, " he said. Then a moment later, before I could even look up, " May I join you? " I looked up, and then around - there were plenty of seats. "We can be imaginary friends, " he says. I smiled and nodded ok.