Lena had chosen the back table because it caught the late sun without making a show of her. At sixty-two, she knew the value of a good corner. The cafe was busy enough to give her cover, quiet enough that a man could hear the soft click of her bracelet when she reached for her cup.
Across the room, Paul pretended to read the menu. He had been doing that for ten minutes. What pulled his eyes back was not the burgundy dress, though it helped. It was the small gold compact she left beside the saucer, open just a little, reflecting the room like a secret she had not meant to share.
Lena noticed him notice it. Her smile did not change. She folded the napkin once, slow and neat, then slid the compact closer to the edge of the table.
Paul finally stood. Halfway over, he almost lost his nerve. The place smelled like coffee, orange peel, and warm bread, and suddenly he felt younger than he had in years.
"You dropped something," he said.
She looked at the compact, then at him. "No," she said, soft enough that he had to lean in. "I left it there to see who was still paying attention."
He should have walked away with a laugh. Men his age were supposed to know better than to chase a moment across a cafe floor. But Lena's eyes held steady, and the compact kept throwing a thin stripe of sunlight across his sleeve.
Paul sat down without being invited. She did not object. Outside, traffic moved past the window, but the table felt tucked away from ordinary time, as if one small object had opened a door neither of them planned to close.
