The Table By The Window

The café sat tucked in a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place where the hum of life seemed softer, where time stretched lazily, curling around steaming cups of coffee and the rustle of newspapers. It was where two strangers met—every day, almost—but never quite.

He sat by the window. She sat by the counter.

At first, it had been a coincidence, a ripple in the routine. He arrived early, flipping open his book, letting sunlight pour onto his table. She came in a little later, always looking slightly rushed but composed, carrying herself with the faint elegance of someone trying not to be noticed. And yet, he noticed. Her eyes lingered on the pastries for just a moment too long before she ordered her cappuccino, plain and unsweetened.

They didn’t speak. They never had. But every day, as the hour passed, something quiet grew between them. A shared stillness. A glance. An almost-smile.

Some days, they waited. She sat at her table, nervously folding napkins into little creases. He had seen her glancing at the door—once, twice, then deliberately looking away. He knew that look because he wore it too. Waiting was its own kind of ache. When her partner arrived, with hurried footsteps and half-apologies, he saw her straighten, hide the weight of her wait behind a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Other days, he waited. His partner came in, all perfume and brisk conversation, sliding into the chair across from him with an energy that overwhelmed the quiet. He nodded, made small talk, but his eyes wandered. Not far—just across the room, where she sat, stirring her drink long after the sugar had dissolved.

Their eyes met sometimes. Just briefly, like two raindrops colliding on a windowpane—there, and then gone. Neither looked away first. And in that lingering gaze, there was understanding. Not longing, not quite. 

But a silent recognition: I see you. I know.

Time wore on. Seasons changed. The light at the café window turned from bright gold to dusky amber. The barista began to recognise them, smiling warmly as he prepared their usual orders.

The girl’s relationship crumbled slowly, like sugar melting in hot coffee—imperceptible at first, until it was just… gone. She didn’t cry, not here, not where he might see. But one day, when she came in alone, something about her was different. Her hands no longer trembled when she folded napkins. Her coffee stayed full longer because there was no one to rush her through it.

He watched, carefully not watching. He was alone, too, now—though his parting had been less quiet. A week ago, his partner had left the café in a swirl of anger, voice sharp enough to draw stares from the tables nearby. He had sat there afterwards, frozen in the aftermath, unsure of what to do. She had been there then, too, a still point across the room. She hadn’t looked at him that day, but she didn’t need to. Her presence, her silence—it had been enough.

By late autumn, something had changed.

They were both alone now, though neither acknowledged it. The café was quieter than usual, the drizzle outside painting streaks on the window where he sat. She had come in, coat speckled with rain, hair damp at the ends. She paused, just inside the door.

For a moment, their eyes met, and this time, something lingered.

She smiled. Not a full smile, just a tiny curve of her lips, soft as the rain outside. He responded, almost involuntarily, like the movement had been waiting in him all along.

And then, she moved to the counter, ordered her cappuccino, and turned away.

He looked down at his book, though he wasn’t reading. Something swelled in the silence—a feeling unspoken, unnamed.

Today, she didn’t sit at her usual table. She walked past it, pausing halfway across the room before taking a seat by the window—at the table next to his.

His heart stilled for a moment, as if unsure of what to do. She hadn’t looked at him, not directly, but he knew she was waiting. Not for someone else this time.

And so, he closed his book. Slowly, deliberately, he got up, leaving his table behind.

She saw him get up from the corner of her eyes. She didn’t turn her head to see. Her fingers kept tracing her coffee mug as she could feel his presence coming closer. She had to relax her breathing to control her excitement. That first flush. 

Outside, the rain slowed, turning into mist. The café lights glowed golden against the deepening blue of twilight.

As he stood there, his voice waiting to form words, something shifted—subtle, undeniable—between them.

It wasn’t a promise, but it was a beginning. And for the moment that felt enough.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used