Sunday Breakfast

Sunday morning breakfast was always busy.  The crowd of diners chatting loudly over there soy chai lattes and cappuccinos.  Knives scraped china plates as they sliced through thick pieces of sourdough toast and poached eggs.  Tables spilled out of the cafe onto the sidewalk, tempting passers by with the smell of freshly cooked bacon.

They sat opposite each other, food untouched on their plates.  Over the top of my newspaper I watched her looking past him, towards the door.  Her fingers twisted the napkin in her lap.

“You haven’t touched your food.  Aren’t you hungry?  ”  He said.

“Not really.”  She said.

“I ordered your favourite, I thought you would be hungry.”

“I ate before I came.”

“Oh.”  He said, his face turning to the full plate of food in front of him.

I turned the page of the newspaper.  A waitress placed my plate of eggs benedict on the table, along with a fresh coffee.  The waitress smiled, then hurried off.  I followed her, until she stopped at the couples table to ask them how the meal was.  He nodded, while she continued to stare past him.  The waitress walked off, leaving them alone again.

“I really wanted to see you, to talk to you.”  He said.

“We’ve already talked.”

“But, I wanted to…” He began.

“No.  I shouldn’t have come.  We’ve talked and we’ve gone over everything.  There is nothing else to talk about.”

“I suppose that’s it then?” He said, his face flushing red.

“Yes.”  She said.

They continued staring at each other for a moment.  Oblivious to the bustle of the cafe.

“I’m going.  Please don’t…”  She looked at the doorway, then back at him.  “This is it.”  She said, reaching for his hand to squeeze it.

She put her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back.  I watched her, staring past him as he watched her too, walk out the doorway.

I watched him a moment longer, staring at the empty doorway.  Before turning back to read the paper, taking a long sip of my coffee.

 

 

 

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