#grief

The woman at the metro stop wore yellow gloves. Not winter gloves—thin latex ones, the kind you'd use for cleaning. She held a paper bag against her chest like a secret, and when the train doors opened, she didn't move.

Marcos stepped past her, found a seat by the window. Through his reflection he watched her remain on the platform as the train pulled away. He thought about those gloves for three stops.

At Diagonal he got off, doubled back. Took the next train going the opposite direction.

The café window seats only three. She arrives at 4:17—always 4:17—orders black coffee, and opens a red notebook. Never writes anything. Just stares at the blank page.

He comes in at 4:23, orders nothing, takes the table beside hers. They don't speak. They've never spoken. This has been happening for six weeks.

I watch from behind the bar, wiping the same glass. My husband used to do this—enter cafés he'd never been to, sit near women he'd never meet, leave without explanation. I followed him once. He went to seven places in one afternoon, stayed exactly six minutes at each.