Watching the Window

Through the glass of the diner across the street, Jasmynn sees Carl shift in his booth, one hand lifting his coffee cup, the other resting on the table — a gesture she knows by heart. The bag of marinara grows cold under her palm, and the rag in her other hand feels like an anchor pulling her down. She doesn't move, but her reflection in the glass shows someone already halfway out the door, caught between the weight of this life and the promise of his crooked grin.