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My eye caught on an older couple sitting in a corner booth. The woman, her hair in tight, steely-gray curls, was reading a paperback novel. She pushed her half-eaten plate across the table to the bald man buried behind a newspaper. Without looking, he pulled the plate closer and touched her hand, their fingers tangling for the briefest of seconds. I couldn’t be sure, but from my seat, it didn’t look like they’d spoken a word to each other.
Maybe I was in mourning. Over a body that never quite looked the way I wanted it to.
