Morning Coffee

There are two couples sitting back to back in the coffee shop that know my presence so well. I didn’t like them being there, told myself, maybe they aren’t lovers. How would you know? But I pretend that they are.

Sitting a crossed from each other tête-à-tête with their biodegradable coffee cups. The men, I think, are coffee drinkers. Just coffee. Black, perhaps, with one raw sugar. The man with a layer of deliberate scruff on his chin and cheeks would perhaps add a splash of milk. One, younger, with a full, almost chubby visage: he won’t take milk in his coffee. The Asian girl with black hair that reminds me of the way ink flows on paper, she will drink tea. Just one tea bag and a dab of honey, places her booted feet on top of his under the table. The other with glasses too large for her face and scuffed clogs will have a Chia latte without the hot water. She likes to take the lid off and consume every last drop. Maybe the way she consumes him.

But out of all places, homes, spaces in this town, both pairs end up here, one setting up Scrabble the other silently pondering their next move across the chessboard. They don’t notice me watching, taking down notes on their life. I wonder if they notice each other. I wonder of I’ll ever share with someone, watch their fingers linger over the pieces and think of those same fingertips on the corner of my mouth.