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 elbow.

You notice that their faces are not dissimilar. Are they sisters? They're too far away. Should've chosen a better position!

The dark-haired woman leans forward, placing her elbows on the table just as the waiter arrives with two take-away cups. She flips herself against the back of her chair. Takes a breath. Waits, letting her hair become a veil across her cheeks. Her exasperation pushes towards you across the artificial lawn. Her companion says Thanks. The waiter steps away, something uncertain in her leaking out.

Again, the elbows on the table, again the chin in her hands. And again, the penetrating gaze. Her companion looks away, her lips moving, her jaw clenched. 

You wish you could get closer suddenly. You can sense that the "conversation" is one-sided.

It's getting cold. The swirl of a gust of wind intrudes, causing the coats hanging from the chairs to sway and flutter. Neither woman notices. You get the impression from the one doing the talking that she is younger than the other. She seems less controlled, wriggling in her seat and running her fingers through her short, wiry hair. She hasn't touched her drink. You vaguely wish you could lip-read.

The waiter approaches again, small pad in hand, uncertainty painted around his eyes.

The speaker stops, mid-utterance. You hear the word No clearly but nothing else of what then escapes her mouth. Her lips become thin, her teeth clenched. The waiter stammers to a halt, waits a beat, and, scratching his chest, retreats.

Your phone pings. A message from work. You dare not look away but you must. It's work. You can give it a few seconds. You turn over your handset and read the message.

Need you here NOW.

Interesting developments.

Don't wait!

You re-read the words. You hate the imprecision, the lack of detail. The commanding tone.

When you re-focus across the slowly filling space, the table is empty.