#waiting

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.

The café was closing, but the woman at table six hadn't moved in an hour. She sat with her hands wrapped around a cold cup of cortado, staring at the empty chair across from her.

"We're closing," I said, gentler than usual.

She looked up. Her eyes were red. "I'm waiting for someone."