You sat at a small corner table and watched the room.
A young couple leaned close over shared fries at the bar. Two women in office clothes laughed into their cocktails. A man in a gray suit sat alone, reading something on his phone with the focused misery of someone trying not to go home yet. Life, in all its ordinary ache, passed before you like a moving painting.
Then a man approached your table.
He was younger than you. Not boyishly younger, not ridiculous. Somewhere in his forties, maybe fifty if life had been hard on him in the right places. He had a little silver at the temples, broad shoulders, and a face that was not handsome in the polished way magazines mean, but in the better way. A face that looked like it had learned things. His eyes were calm, dark, and unexpectedly gentle.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked.
Your first instinct was to say yes.
Your second instinct, arriving one heartbeat later, was to wonder how many years of your life had been organized around first instincts that kept you small.
“No,” you said. “Go ahead.”
He sat down slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to change your mind. “I’m not trying to be rude,” he said. “You just look like someone who came here to escape something, and I’m always curious about brave people.”
