Something's going on
They must be in their late thirties or early forties. Hard to tell at that distance. Chin in hands, or arms folded on the table, solemn. Listening. Or not. That moment when life seems wrong or different or that it has prepared you for something. Sounds good in your head, anyway. One of them has something very important to reveal. You can't tell which one. The other is full of expectation. And yet you can't say which. There is a movement at the periphery of their sight. A bird, perhaps. Or the shadow of a memory. Because one of them jerks their head, staring, vigilant. Turns back to their companion. It's the woman. Her straight, raven-black hair swishes around her cheek. Slowly her companion swivels their head, training their sight in the same direction. Towards the entryway to the courtyard cafe. A frown creases their face and stays frozen there for many moments. Ah. Another woman, her short-cropped hair a disguise of sorts. A burgundy cap lies on the table next to her elbo...
