A father speaks to his son. The son listens. He thinks. There is no friction. No angst. The son looks like a rebel but he isn’t. He responds to his father. It’s almost jovial, without a smile. The father nods his head. The son then smiles. A small Coke bottle is picked up from the table. The son takes a swig. Sugary goodness. The father’s wine glass sits half full to his right. The father’s face is hidden but his posture indicates he too is smiling, happy. The people at the table too appear to be happy. Cell phones are out. Social media apps being perused?? Pictures are taken. Food is shared. They are happy.
She sits across from him in her pink sweater. Talking. Talking. He is so cute. He smiled at me when he returned from the restroom. I desperately wish she too would go to the restroom just so I can see what he’ll do. IF he’ll do. But she appears to have a bladder of steel, and keeps talking, talking, never leaving the table. They know I’ve been watching them…coyly. He smiles at me again as he puts on his jacket. Then both say “goodnight” as they pass. He won’t kiss me later, but his smile is fodder for my dreams.
They are obviously tourists. From where, who knows. But their sweatshirts and table etiquette give them away. They can’t hide. They have invisible scrunchies in their hair. All of them. Even the balding men.
©️MichelGarreau
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