The couple to my right, leaning against the side of the building, is older. Mid-fifties. Before they lit their cigarettes, the man grabbed the woman's hand and locked his arm, steadying her before she lost her footing where the bricks meet the pavement. And there they lean, smoking and measuring their hands against one another's. Their children are probably grown, and have just gone back to college after the long summer break. Their mood is one of calm. Relaxation.
There is a girl in her late twenties sitting at the table in front of me, accompanied by a man of the same age bracket who looks like a strange cross between Seth Green and a young Bill Gates. His body language, Seth Gates, suggests he is extremely nervous with the situation. The girl, on the other hand, seems at ease. Her right leg is crossed over her left, her suspended foot bouncing. His legs are bent at the knees, his feet resting beneath his seat. The girl's right arm hangs lazily over the side of the chair, leaving her left hand free to play with her hair or take sips from her Blue Moon. They look good together, this couple, but it looks like she likes him more than he likes her. But he has no reason to look elsewhere. Surely he cannot find better. And so the two continue to talk, her laughing and light, him soft-spoken and avoiding.
Two old ladies. To quote Brad Rodrigues misquoting Bill Corbett: "They bore me."
A woman who looks familiar to me is sitting by herself, talking on her telephone. She waves at a blonde mom who waves back, then walks past her into the restaurant.
Bald businessman, cheating on his wife.
Eight women and one man at a table in the far corner. His wife's work friends, undoubtedly.
Where are the young girls in tight sweaters and skirts? Where are the bright teeth and sharp jaw lines? Where are the gaggles of giggles and sweet perfume and weshouldn'tbeoutthislatebutweare?
