People Watching

I sat at a table in a dimly lit café,The soft hum of jazz not too far away.The waiter approached with a courteous smile,“How may I help you? Stay a while.” I wanted to say, “Hold me, tell me it’s fine—That I’m not defined by those who decline.”But that’s too deep for a stranger to hear,So I simply murmured, “Anything’s fine, dear.” He spoke of a wine, a bold red hue,Said, “It complements your lipstick too.”He praised the aroma, so rich, divine—I smiled and nodded, “That sounds fine.” He poured my glass, I took a sip,The edge of the glass cold on my lip.A burst of laughter broke my trance—A table nearby alive with chance. I turned my gaze and caught the sound,A group of friends on their second round.I smiled—it looked like love and light,A rare soft glow in the heart of night. Then, at the corner of my eye,I caught a sight that made me sigh.A woman in ivory, her laughter small,And the man beside her, admiring it all. She spoke of work—mundane, perhaps—Yet he hung on every word, no gaps.His eyes said more than words could share,A silent prayer of love laid bare. They looked so young, so sure, so free,Like everything I’d wished for me.No cake, no songs, no grand display,Just quiet joy that won’t decay. I forgot my meal, forgot my wine,Forgot that I’d been checking the time.The waiter returned, concern in his tone,“Are you alright, miss? You seem... alone.” I laughed, half-hearted, waved it away,“Just people watching,” was all I’d say.He smiled, then softly began to tellThe story of the two I knew so well. “They’ve been together since they were teens,Chasing laughter, living dreams.They come here often, just because,No reason needed—just who they are.” His eyes lit up, his words took flight,As if their love restored his sight.And I sat there, still, for a moment or two,Drowning in the ache of something true. Then silence fell, the café dimmed,My candle flickered, nearly trimmed.Two hours gone, my phone stayed mute,No message sent, no soft salute. I left a note beside my plate—“Forgetting me must’ve felt great.”Then laughed at myself for the petty line,And crossed it out before I signed. I paid the bill, put on my coat,And whispered a prayer in my throat:“Not resentful, Lord, but it stings, you see,To want a love that won’t want me.” I stepped outside into the rain,Red wine still burning in my veins.And as the city lights began to blur,I realized—I’d spent the night watching her. Watching them. Watching love, not hate—Just a girl, two hours late.

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