Have we met at seven? The shop corner, next to the bakery? It seems like sunlight coming in through dusty panes. Every Tuesday, every Thursday, faces flickering like static on an unwatched TV. Faces drift, some familiar, many not. I think of names I never learn—never could learn, because they don't matter, or maybe because I've forgotten mine.
The wallpaper in the café rotates in unison, I swear. Patterns of grapevines and dandelion fluff. You would think someone would notice, but they don't. Maybe they do, but say nothing. Just as I never mention the way you wear the same jacket. Soft gray fleece. Rain resistant, I suppose. We sit, we listen, to sounds of coffee grinding, muffled laughter, the world proceeding like a clockwork toy. Sometimes you bring a book. Or I do.
Don't forget your phone. Simple reminder, siphoned from endless routines. But how many lock screens tell stories we pretend to understand? Messages unread, ghosts more substantial than flesh and bone. The sound of notifications pulling away, a tide erasing footsteps in the sand.