I was sat in a Starbucks somewhere, working on some project or other and enjoying the bitterness of the bad coffee and the anonymity of the surroundings. An old man jolted my table as he rushed to pull out a chair for his wife. “I'm sorry.” He said, his words landing with a sincerity that seems to be mostly out of fashion.
Her hands shaking, she gently lowered their tray onto the table, before instinctively searching around for some napkins. The man took his seat, pulled the newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it with a shake like he was going to make an announcement.
Napkins in hand, the woman returned, laying four of them down on the table before carefully distributing their drinks and cakes onto them before landing inelegantly in her chair. She pulled a notebook from her large handbag — the kind of bag a nan would have with provisions for any eventuality.
They sat in silence for like thirty minutes, him reading his paper, her writing some kind of list. Every now and then he'd clear his throat quite loudly — she never reacted. At some point, she stood, leaned over the table and dropped two sachets of sugar in his drink. She gave it a stir, he didn't acknowledge.
At some point, in a routine that felt almost rehearsed, he made a grumble sound, folded up the paper and laid it at the edge of the table. As he was doing this, she closed her notebook, brushed her hand across its chintzy cover, tucked the pen into the loop and returned it to her handbag.
They both took a long sip from their cups, and planned the rest of the weekend. The garden centre for hyacinths — and slug pellets. A gift for Deborah's niece — a voucher? He suggests, she pulls a face. “Too impersonal for a twentieth.”
“Lamb or beef for Sunday?” she asks. A grin appears on his face. “I've never tasted lamb as good as you do it.”
Their love ground into them through habit, each other being as much a part of them as their own aching joints. Their routine and patter weaved together like a comforting sweater.
I'm a fantasist. I like to daydream and get lost in possibilities. I like to imagine how things might work out — what will it be like to get that job, live in that penthouse or win that award. The one thing I seem incapable of daydreaming or fantasising about is a love like this. I see it around me with a little envy for a life I'll never live.