Every Thursday morning, I’d sit at the café with my lukewarm cappuccino and my half-hearted attempt at journaling. It had become part of my ritual ever since I moved to this sleepy town on the edge of Oregon’s coast. Not much really happened here, but that was kind of the point.
After six years in Seattle, I needed somewhere the noise couldn’t find me. The market opened late, the air smelled like salt and bread, and the people mostly kept to themselves. It was all I wanted.
Except I couldn’t stop watching them.
Every Thursday at nine, a silver Ford Crown Victoria would pull up right across the street. The driver was an older man, always in a tweed jacket even in the summer, white hair combed back like he had somewhere important to be. But he never got out. Instead, he’d wait—hands folded on the wheel, eyes scanning the sidewalk.
And then she’d come.
She moved slowly, cane in hand, but carried herself with a quiet dignity that seemed untouched by time. Always in a pink cardigan, always with a black tote bag. Her lips painted the softest rose. She’d lean into the open window of the Ford, kiss him gently on the cheek—or sometimes the lips—and whisper something that would make his mouth curl into the kind of smile you only see in people who know something you don’t. Then she’d straighten, adjust her bag, and hobble into the market like she hadn’t just made my whole day.
I didn’t know them. Not their names, not their story. I never waved, never even made eye contact. Just sat across the street pretending to write while I waited for that kiss. It made everything feel less heavy. Like maybe love didn’t expire.
Then one Thursday, the car didn’t come.
It was strange, how quickly I noticed. No silver glint. No hazarded blink. I stared across the street, coffee cooling between my hands, trying to rationalize it. Maybe they were running late. Maybe he forgot. Maybe the car broke down.
But then I saw her.
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