There’s a table by the window I always notice first. Two glasses. One half-finished plate. A coat hanging off the chair. Nothing remarkable. That’s probably why. They’re arguing quietly. Not enough to leave. Not enough to laugh. One of them reaches across and steals a piece of bread. The other lets them. I like watching people who don’t know they’re being ordinary. There’s something holy in how little they perform. The waiter forgets their water. They don’t care. A phone lights up. Gets turned face down. Outside, a bus stops, opens, leaves. I used to think love had to look like a fire. Maybe sometimes it looks like passing the salt. I like watching people who don’t know they’re being ordinary. No speeches. No promises. Just: “Try this.” “Too much?” “Here.” They ask for the bill. I look away.
