hot chocolate

He sits with her at a small round table in the back room of the coffee shop. He’s balding, overweight, wearing a plaid, flannel shirt and navy cargo pants. She’s graying, overweight, dressed in a red, Christmas sweater and jeans. They talk quietly, genially, smiling, looking one another in the eyes. In the room across the way, a man in a moustache and ponytail sings Bob Dylan. He’s horribly off key, but they don’t seem to mind. They’re talking about landscaping, but it’s not what they talk about, but how. She uses her hands to gesture. His arms are folded. He listens. He’s always been a good listener. She’s always been the talker. They’ve worked this out. She changes the subject and says, “Millie got one hundred dollars for a bag of books on eBay.” His chin is in his hand, now. He uses the word “wicked,” twice. He laughs. She sips from her cup of hot chocolate. They will leave in 10 minutes to head to Millie’s for a small party with friends. They will stay for an hour, then head home, to bed. She will wake up alone tomorrow morning, head downstairs and find him on the kitchen floor, eyes open, mouth open, tongue out, lolled to the right. A heart attack. They know none of that, now, of course. He leans back in his chair, asks, “How’s the hot chocolate?” She shrugs, reaches for his hand, takes it in hers, kisses it.