A couple sits in front of me, across each other. Each with a tiny cup of royal pudding in their hands. He whispers something I cannot hear as she looks him right in the eye, and smiled.
She has straight brows drawn on, perhaps done in a rush in the morning before she left the house. Her hair hangs straight, and her slender physique dons a navy tee and ripped jeans. A line of words run down the back of her arms, a tattoo I can't read from here.
She has an iced coffee and a cream in a jug, but she doesn't pour her cream into the coffee she sips through a straw.
He has a warm cup of latte, creamy frothy lusciousness. He downs it quick, way before she is halfway through hers.
They are laughing. She collapses back into the arm chair, head tilted back as he leans forward, hand gesturing, telling a funny encounter with much intensity.
He takes out his phone and tries to snap a picture of her, keep a photo of her that perhaps he will publish on Facebook later; my prized possession he will say. Coffee, tea and you are still my royal pudding.
She takes a packet of sugar and threw it at him, avoiding the lenses, not quite sure where to look, what smile to put on this time round.
He laughs but keeps the camera still. She goes on, finding ways to avoid the awkwardness of herself- the parts she did not like, she didn't see why he would want a photo of herself.
Alas, she knows he will not stop, so she took the packet of sugar, the tiny white square that only covered half of her lips and placed it on her rose colored lip- she stared right into the camera.
It was a pretty picture, but it didn't tell of the jokes she laughed about, the creamy pudding she savoured nor that she drinks her coffee bitter and dark.