The café’s empty.

           Well, somewhat: there’s a girl typing away in the corner, a handful of people sitting at the bar, murmuring to themselves. It’s a quiet night—cool and breezy.  It’s perfect weather for a stroll in the park, to watch the stars.

            The girl with the laptop hums to herself, green ear buds snugly fit in her ears. A woman in a purple shirt sighs at the bar table. The bartender fills the order of a morose looking couple.
          
            There is silence.

          
            He comes in, doesn’t take his jacket off. She’s already sitting at a little table, the little table they once frequented, staring at a steaming cup. He takes the table behind her, motions for a sleepy waitress to bring him a coffee, black.
          
            “…Aren’t you going to sit with me?” She doesn’t turn to face him. She’s looking forward, at the typing girl.

            He scoffs, staring at the morose-couple, “No.”

            “Fine.” She’s annoyed. But She says nothing more, just places the cup at her lips, sipping the hot liquid. It burns her taste buds, but she gulps it down, eyes shut to the pain. She wants to ask why he’s called her there if he’s not even going to sit with her (the screaming argument that happened at the time of the “invitation” probably had something to do with it). But she says nothing.

            The minutes tick by.