Outside, looking in, I see them. Friends from work I used to know. That was another life ago.
They're sitting together, brunch on Sunday. Not a care in the world. But I can see the anxiety in the corners of their eyes. They're talking about vacations and getting away—New Mexico, the Cascades, Kyoto. They complain how much their knees hurt, how they almost lost their luggage on the plane.
I remember this place, clean and uncluttered, carefully chosen vintage chairs. I sometimes think I could get a job here, why not. It would be a simple life, taking orders, cleaning tables. I could get a little place nearby, open the windows, aromas of Greek cooking down the street in the evening.
But then I remember, my reflection in the glass. That was another life. Before the plague. This is what I look like now. I don't do brunch anymore.
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