The woman in the cafe

I had seen her in the cafe several times - looking at her phone with an espresso in the morning or taking her time over a pastry in the evening. But we only acknowledged each other when Fredo dropped a tray and we both looked up and then smiled at each other's surprise.

After that, we would smile or nod when we happened to see each other at the cafe - which happened at least two or three times a week (I was writing my never to be finished novel that year and spent - or, rather, killed - a lot of time sitting at the cafe's tin-topped tables). It became a tradition to toast each other with our coffee cups whenever Fredo dropped anything - an event that wasn't as rare as you might have expected.

Fredo smashed, spectacularly, an entire tray of glasses this morning and I looked up with my cup half raised. But she wasn't there and I realised that I hadn't seen her for at least a month. I finished the gesture, lifting my cup in the direction of her empty seat, and the thought came into my head that, in all our encounters, we had not exchanged even a single word.