Dust kicked up all around, but there was a streak of purple in the distant sky like an oil painting, save for a horseshoe orange glow lit by the setting sun, the promise of rain droplets to beat down the horrific dust. He fumbled with his hat when he entered, not quite knowing what to do with his hands, turning the hat in both hands, even after he sat down at the coffee counter. She was beautiful, he thought. The pencil on her right ear should've been a budding flower. She smiled at him, and then she looked down. He was still holding the hat when the coffee was hot, black and strong before him. He followed her eyes to the hat and then he looked down.
"Oh. So that's what coffee looks like", he said.
She laughed silently. He thought Edvard Munch should lighten up and paint her next. And he should do her in pastel, minute black and white, fair chestnut for hair untied, and leave purple for the threatening sky. He would have to apportion blue and silver for her eyes. All tools of the trade could be carried in his hat.
"Let me take that", she said pointedly. She had a brush behind the counter and, delicately at first, brushed with an even firm stroke. Coffee and a brush? He watched her with parted lips.
"You're very kind", he said.
"Oh", she started. She looked at him and just smiled. She breezed out from behind the counter, he marveled at her slenderness, and placed his hat on a high short empty shelf just inside the front door entwined by a green vine plant. She blushed when she saw him watching her, but her eyes were full of humor, she did not look away. A woman expecting nothing in return. A storm hovered, rain pelting the front window. He was in love.