It's two minutes after ten-thirty. She sits down across from our booth, one over. I don't notice when she comes in, but in hindsight, I can piece times together.
10:34. Waitress comes up, asks what she'd like to drink, if she's ready to order. She points to the breakfast specials, the ones that run to 10:30. The waitress starts apologizing, but seeing the look of concern on the womans face, she says she'll still have it made for her. The woman simply agrees, still carrying that same, concerned look: eyes wide, thin-lipped, with wrinkles around the mouth and a small, twitchy note in her voice.
Then again, that look might've just been age. It fit with her outfit: beige slacks, pressed neatly, with a baby blue windbreaker. Blonde-ish hair, wispy from the windy day and the years.
10:38. The woman sips her coffee, when her husband walks in from the bathroom. I hadn't seen him before. He slides into the booth, on her side. His oval face and pointed chin carry themselves stooped over his torso. His mouth, filled with small, white teeth, moves slowly as he talks to her, eyes magnified by the thick, round glasses perched on his nose, as he reaches next to him in slow motion and pulls out a newspaper.
10:40 They split it into sections, as she laughs at what he said, her face beaming into a sudden smile. For an instant, I can see them fifty years ago, when they first met. At a dance somehwere, maybe in one of the local bars across the street. I can see their eyes meet the same way they just did, ever so slightly, as he drops an off-handed sarcastic comment with a slight grin as he sips his drink and she blooms into a smile.
It's nice to know people still fall in love for the long haul.
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