Canned accordion music almost drowns out the motor noise on the busy street, and the fountain recycling water keeps me from hearing the women's conversation across a small room crowded with fake grape vines and mail-order bistro decor.
The women are both dressed in black... makes middle age look thinner.
The husband of the couple that just came in must not have read the sign on the entrance: We do not serve fast food and good things come to those who wait.
He taps his fingers rapidly next to his glass of Chianti and she looks around anxiously for the waitress.
There is barely room for my journal next to a very cold glass pinot grigio on the table lit by a lamp shaped like a benevolent waiter, cloth over his arm.
The Chianti guy is fucking his secretary, but he takes his wife out to lunch so they can discuss the remodel project on the lake house.
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