FRIDAY WAS THEIR day. They always arrived just after twelve, before the lunch hour got into full swing. They took their table, under the side window, looking over the flowerbox of deep-red geraniums. And they always ordered the same meal, the goulash soup we’re famous for. He was tall, tanned and fit-looking, while she was solid, with a sweet, vulnerable face. When they weren’t eating they’d lean across the table, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes as they chatted away.
When I delivered the tray of food to the table, or returned to collect the empty bowls, I’d linger and eavesdrop on their conversation. They never spoke a word about insider trading. Or a legal brief. Or whatever else the suits go on about when they’re in here throwing back the red and trying to hit on the waitresses. They looked like the perfect couple, and I never doubted they were.
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