27 Jan

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
     and settle
          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
“She-shush she-shushes”
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.”