A man and woman,
apparently in their forties,
share a table at one of my favorite coffee stops,
seated just inside a floor-to-ceiling glass wall.
The space offers natural light,
and a rather boring view of rushed commuters
to enter a feeder onramp queue.
Half of them are looking at their phones.
A concrete wall of stamped-pattern
opposite the road looks back at us.
My eyes keep returning to the couple
as I taste the Nicaraguan roast
into a host of to-dos.
It was her black Lulu Lemons
that first caught my eye –
a brick-house physique presentation –
mom-du jour attire displaying every perfection.
The two exchange a few minutes of inaudible
and I fall back into the clicky-clack
of a laptop draft.
Only then the steamer stops steaming.
The overhead music settles.
The whistling of car tires cease.
Others’ conversations lull.
“So, what did you do?” he asks,
masking a sheepish smile
with a coffee cup
close to the upper lip,
guarding curiosity with an involuntary position.
Her legs cross and hips twist,
“I hired a detective.”