He sits quietly in his usual corner.
She moves out from behind the counter, a tray of food and drink in hand. Look how gracefully she moves, he thinks. In fact, she’s a graceful person. Always polite. Customers love her. She’ll always stop for a cheery word. She walks past him to deliver the meal to an elderly lady, and because it’s quiet in the café today, she stops for an extra-long chat, treating the old dear more like a friend than a customer. How long had he been coming here? Coming mainly for the chance to exchange just a few short words with her, to see her lovely smile light up her face. Trying so hard to build up enough courage to ask her out. He felt so hopeless!
She comes back, glancing out into the busy street as she returns to the counter. He notices that she does this often. Ever since the day of the accident. It happened right there on the road. Three cars colliding together. The terrible noise it made, and the frantic running around trying to pull people out of buckled side doors. The flashing lights of police cars and ambulances. The tow-trucks trying to clear the way while traffic built up, coming into town from both directions. Those in the café that day had ringside seats. Smoke and alarms and chaos. One fatality and three critically injured.
Whenever she passes the spot; whenever she looks out and remembers, is there some personal sadness in her face? Was there an unspoken and private grief in her expression?
He thinks, I wish I could talk to her. I wish she could see me. I wish I weren’t dead!
