Ohhhhhh how I wish I could capture the expressions (and conversation) of the two sitting next to me. I can’t hear either of them, but sometimes the expressions are more than enough.
They’re both young, but that’s as far as similarity goes. I’d say that they’re having a conversation, but he’s the only one talking. He speaks with a firm gaze as though he knows what he needs, and she quietly considers him as if he’s an ass and doesn’t know how to converse. He’s got one arm outstretched and one hand partially raised, as if she just isn’t smart enough to understand his reasoning.
She laughs slightly, but not in the way he thinks she’s laughing.
She’s wearing a cute outfit and and cool white shoes. He’s in flip flops — rarely a good sign.
Her legs are crossed and so are her arms — rather tightly — around the bag in her lap. She knows he’s trouble, and not the good kind.
Her hair is cute — free and wispy. His is tight and sits above a bit of beard. He could be cool, but he’s holding too much anger and even more superiority. He speaks low because he doesn’t want anyone to hear — or worse — to step in — which would certainly throw a wrench into the way he sees himself.
How many times can I look over at him safely? How many times can she?
He wipes down the table. She reaches out to put her hand on his and it moves while he moves, still wiping. He doesn’t look at her.
He stands abruptly and walks to the trashcan. She takes a swig of her frappucino, turns, and follows him.
I wish she hadn’t.