The stinging, spicy aftermath of the largest salad she had ever eaten lingered on her lips and tongue. Blank pages stare at her hungrily.
One in the corner, with a calendar on her lap, the eraser end of her pencil lodged between her teeth and short dark hair swept to the side, dark eyes intent as she shuffles things around.
Slouched sideways, only the top of his hair peeks out over the book he reads, through the noise of the coffee grinder and ambient café music. Occasionally his beard appears from hiding, his hand reaches out and he drinks his frozen mocha, still immersed.
Next in line, her face is lit by the glow of her laptop. “Pictures!” she exclaims, and stares into the depths of the screen, smiling in response to something…or nothing. Her green eyes glow from within.
Across the table, he writes almost as fast as she does, their pens nearly colliding. Dim lights make blond hair only glow, not shine, and when he looks up, he meets the eyes of the girl with the calendar.
They are an awkward and comfortable rectangle with five corners.
Empty water glasses litter the table. They discuss the internet, language, anger, music, communication, and death. The natural rhythm of conversation dips down, climbs up, and plateaus, and all heads bend back down over their projects.
Darker it grows inside and out, the volume of noise rises in the café as the evening shift starts. They are silent. These are the forever days, in which no pictures are taken, but the familiar faces with familiar expressions have knowledge beyond words.
This is life.