Expensive Conversations

She's a performer
He's an unpublished novelist

Every Wednesday they arrive at the same quiet hightea cafe

He sits on a plush seat
in the cozy jazzy corner
with mood lighting

She folds herself daintily
onto an art deco chair
in the gentle glow of the atrium window

He writes
She reads stageplays

And they spend those days on sips of earl grey after a hearty brunch,
perhaps some cheese and wine in the afternoon

The waiters and the barista know their names,
and so do they

Their eyes have spoken for decades

All the ins and the outs of their monologues have been witnessed

He finds the trace of her lipstick on countryroad  porcelain as warm as the most intimate hug

His broad-shouldered raincoat makes her feel secure

Her shy crossed legs speak to him of their coy desires but he knows she wouldn't dare

His eyebrow tells her she still has it,
as she pats and ruffles through her perm

The dignity of her tartan dress-suit presents her like a castle on the hill

His new cufflinks impress,
her approval shines through her glasses

Their dramatic voices weave gently in and out with the "would you like anything else from the menu"s and occasional other prompts and pleasantries from the staff, as subtle as they possibly could for such cultured aristocrats

Yes the two are madly in love as only a pair of eccentrics could be

And these are expensive conversations