The woman in the blue coat always ordered the same thing: cortado, no sugar, one glass of water. She sat at the corner table with a book she never seemed to finish—always page forty-three, always The Waves.
I watched her for three weeks before I understood she was waiting.
She arrived at 4:17 PM. Not 4:15, not 4:20. Exactly 4:17, as if punctuality itself was a kind of prayer. She would smooth the tablecloth, arrange her cup just so, and open the book to page forty-three.
On Tuesday, a man entered at 4:19 PM.
He wore a gray scarf despite the spring warmth. She didn't look up, but her fingers stopped moving on the page. He ordered nothing. He stood near the door, hands in his pockets, looking at her the way someone looks at a photograph of themselves as a child—with recognition and distance.
After three minutes, he left.
She closed the book. Drank her cortado. Left exact change, as always.
Wednesday—today—she didn't come.
I found myself checking the door at 4:17. The table sat empty, the afternoon light cutting across it like an accusation.
At 4:32, I noticed the book. Tucked between the salt shaker and napkin holder, spine perfectly aligned with the table's edge. The Waves, worn and dog-eared.
I opened it. Page forty-three held a bookmark—a faded train ticket from Barcelona to Toulouse, dated April 14, 2006. Twenty years ago exactly.
On the back, in careful handwriting: "I'll wait as long as it takes."
I looked up. The man in the gray scarf stood at the counter, ordering a cortado. No sugar. One glass of water.
He sat at the corner table, opened the book to page forty-three, and positioned it just so.
Then he checked his watch. 4:34 PM.
His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the bookmark over, reading words he must have written himself two decades ago. He set it down carefully, precisely, where she could find it.
If she came back.
When the church bells rang five o'clock, he was still there, hands folded on the table, staring at the door.
Waiting.
#flashfiction #Barcelona #waiting #lostlove