"Maybe the problem is you."
Maybe, the problem is me.
She followed his hands as he fidgeted; the sachet of sweetener, the lip of his saucer in line with the table, his gaze in his coffee, his mouth pursed, thin and menacing.
"I don't know what the problem is."
The steady hum of chatter kept them locked in the moment. His coffee must have been really fascinating. She followed his eyes as they flicked around.
"I need a moment."
I saw the irritation in her face, but couldn't bring myself care.
"I don't have time to waste."
He kept staring at his coffee.
"There's someone else."
"I know you do."
"Was that all this whole fucking episode was about?"
"I had to tell you."
"Fuck. Ok. Are you done?"
"I don't know why, though."
"Does that even matter?"
"It should, shouldn't it?"
"If it did, wouldn't this conversation happen before anything else?"
"I guess you're right."
Smoke strings dance in the flickering breeze. Sunsets come and leave. We remain where we are, walking in circles. Maybe, just maybe, the problem is...