The woman at the table next to me interrupts my afternoon coffee and reading. “Are you using this fan?” she asks in Vietnamese. Obviously I am, it’s pointed right at me, just as I intended when I put it there. I know there’s no sense in a battle, so I offer it up and receive a nice “thank you, brother” and she’s on her way. The outdoor sidewalk seating of the café is filling up anyway. It was bound to be taken, and I’m in too poor a mood for even a slight confrontation.

I return to my coffee and book. About 32 Celsius, overcast. A trumpet is playing over the café’s speakers, just above the hum of the fans and the conversations around me in at least three different languages. This scene is playing out in no fewer than a million cafés around Saigon this Sunday. Or any Sunday, for that matter. Solos like me, reading and writing. Couples whispering sweet nothings to each other. Friends gossiping…

But right on cue, like any other afternoon, it starts to rain, and nobody is prepared. A scene of the assembled masses scrambling for cover immediately ensues, even for those already protected and covered.

I play my part, taking a spot indoors next to the door. I’m a pro — I know this won’t last. I’ve seen eight rainy seasons in Saigon, and these afternoon cycles never fail. Just as I’m about to resume reading my book, I sense a look… or maybe a glance? Definitely not a stare. But I sense it nonetheless.

Then she enters the frame. Is that… Mai? No, definitely not. It’s a beautiful tan girl in a blue dress and sandals, walking against the flow of the mad scramble. She’s not on a mission, per se, but definitely walking with purpose. Okay, yeah… she’s definitely looking at me. Not trying to get my attention, just… observing? Interested? The thought is both sexy and cute.

But before I can even enjoy the moment, I feel the guilt. The knot in my chest, pulling my stomach up to my throat, bringing pain to my brain somehow. But why? I don’t owe her anything anymore. She made her decision, I left the door open. There’s still the entanglement of friends, work, investment, and she’s still tugging at those strings. But do I deserve to feel guilty over a glancing stare? I offered full transparency… twice. But she didn’t take it. I don’t deserve to feel this way… 4-7-8… subside… okay. Breathe…

Damn it, where did she go? The girl in blue and the mysterious glance? Why did I let my mind go down this spiral? The rain has stopped, the AC is too cold, and the vibes have turned too “influencer” in here — time to shift back outside. My usual spot, which I missed earlier, is actually open now; time to settle in. Grab the fan, fill up my water cup, and tiptoe around the huddled group of Chinese tourists who just arrived. They stick out like a sore thumb, but I’m glad to see others enjoying the remnants of French colonial culture.

Mid tiptoe, a dog tangles its Vietnamese owner around the tree next to my spot. How and why — no idea. But the owner seems unfazed, as though this has happened before.

The girl in blue, though, is nowhere to be found… oh wow, this time it’s complete eye contact, but with no smile, and I’m too dumbfounded to even manage a smirk, instead wearing a face that says nothing but complete surprise. Will she say something? Will I? Our heads actually swivel as she passes by, neither of us breaking the lock. But not a word is uttered, let alone a head tilt or a wave.

The returning guilt quickly subsides — I was better prepared this time. I’m used to these types of encounters in Vietnam… it’s just rarely a girl in a blue dress. More often it’s a Vietnamese uncle, simply curious what a foreigner like me is doing here, followed by some awkward head nods and a few chuckles lost in translation.

Recomposed, I pull out my Moleskine and start my daily journaling. But that doesn’t last long, as sure enough, there she is, right across from me, her face buried in a red book. I try to make out the title — maybe I can strike up a conversation if… nope, she catches me. Look away. Be cool. Head down, back into my journaling.

The scene this afternoon stays much the same. Casual glances, a shared laugh at a cute dog annoyed by tourists taking selfies, staying seated even as our coffee glasses have sat empty for an hour or more. We say more in glances than most spoken conversations at this café. But we never speak.

The blue dress… nothing about it inherently stands out, but it doesn’t quite fit in, either. Just like me, honestly. I wonder about her story. Nothing about her screams Vietnamese — I’d actually guess Filipino or Thai, though she’s a bit ambiguous, like me. The red book, though — is the title in Vietnamese? Maybe she’s from the west, bordering Cambodia, mixed Khmer. She seems a bit out of place in Saigon, more suited to a reading day on the beach than a day out in the city. So maybe an island is home.

Or maybe she’s an expat, like me. Traveling solo around Asia? A digital nomad? Teaching English while studying Vietnamese? But why leave home to begin with? Is she running, or chasing something? Regardless, Saigon isn’t a bad place to end up.

Oh, but she has a “Saigon kiss” on her left leg, below the calf — probably from childhood, riding on the back of her father’s Honda Cub or Dream, learning the hard way how to avoid a guardless exhaust. So not Saigonese, but western Vietnamese is where I’m landing. Enough to still be a bit of a fish out of water, and enough for a daydreamer like me to wonder about her story.

Now another patron is asking about my fan. Fine, it’s yours. I think the droning sound was causing me to daydream a little too hard anyway. Back to reality, and I’m noticing a lift. The sun has turned a bit sweeter. The rain has returned, and the mad rush starts again. This time, though, I’m covered by the tree, and I’m in the clear — though I do get a look or two from strangers, implying: but sir… you do realize it’s raining, right?

As I take in the scene, the blue dress remains still, across from me. Her face still in the red book. Even more stubborn than me, ignoring the rain.