His lips are coffee stained. I don’t know if literally but they are browned around the edges, lined. Pigments perform strangely with age.
It isobvious; he will be the one to go first, of the two of them, that is. She is in impeccable shape for her age. Her dyed hair sits ethereally,thinly, above her cranium, maintaining the bounce that well-kept grandmothers’ hair has. Her lips, not stained, are painted modestly coral and herglasses perch.
“What teas do you have?”
“Wonderful. I’ll have green. Would you like a cup of tea? Some tea. Tea, dear. How about a coke?”
Herecognizes the word; it registers with its intruding clarity, fire alarm red.
“And he’ll have a coke.”
She gives a knowing look to the young waiter attheir table, affirming his patience.
Simultaneously, the old man offers his signature wink. Benevolent.
They eat rather quickly,or it should be said they give up on eating quickly. “No thank you” to the to-go boxes but perhaps some biscotti.
“Biscotti, dear. Cookies. Wouldyou like some Cookies?”
Coffee-lips keeps his gaze with the waiter, not ready to acknowledge that his mate is now his mediator with the rest of theworld.
“Alright, dear. Some biscotti and the check please.”
They eat two of the four. The young man cleans the table and keeps the two untouchedbiscotti for himself.
And he thinks of he and his mate. Already feeling old. Feeling a cruelly finite moment, the visitation of angels.
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