By Lea Anne Stoughton
He is talking to a woman, a regular I do not know, about other regulars I do not know. I have come to this place every day for a week, but I am still an outsider.
There will be a wedding later, so the waiter brings special plates when we order coffee. I offer them to the woman, but she has her own.
He tells me he loves me, but I pretend not to hear over the music. The guitarist has curly red hair. He catches me watching him, so I close my eyes and smile.
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