Leftovers

I’m meeting you for coffee. You see me and wave me over. Your hands span a cinnamon cauldron – Hot syrup, milk and cream.

 

I watch customers over your shoulder.

          A solemn girl is sitting alone by the door. 

          A ravenous man by the window is devouring pastry.

 

Thick lips steal bites – a tooth-rot taste of folded almond cream.

 

His mouth is dirtied with dustings of icing sugar, and flakes of almond.

He saves the crumbs for a wetted fingertip, and the girl watches her coffee

Go cold.

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