Ships in the Night

He has short hair and faintly nervous eyes - a pinch of what might be dandruff on his shoulders.
"Renovators delight," she categorises him unconsciously.
She has a downturned mouth an ample hips.
"Matronly," he muses idly.

The lunch time rush is a mixed blessing for her. Busiest hours of the day but undoubtedly the shortest.
The anonymity of the cafe is a welcome respite for him after a morning of interviews, feigned enthusiasm and amplified confidence.

"Can I get an avocado wrap and a flat white?"
She taps her notepad to punctuate her efficiency.
"You look like you could use a dessert, too."
"High metabolic rate," he volunteers. "It's genetic."
"We do great baclava. You probably need the nuts if you're a vegetarian."

Wrestling with the coffee machine she mentally reviews discussed use and painting crusted nails at who gave him the page of suburban boxes.
Poorly moisturised hands drum aLaminex tattoo, marking time until a drop in interest rates signals a surge in the dormant real estate market.

Cautious brown eyes mouth their way around a large jar of overpriced biscuits.
"Can I get an avocado wrap and latte?"
"The usual, eh?"
"I might get a slice of baklava, too."
"You're covered in dust. Worked up an appetite..."
"Doing some plastering for the town hall renovations."

A flakey hand probes the hip pocket of a pair of blue canvas trousers. The grease in the cracked palm is permanent. No amount of scrubbing will remove the stain.
"Good to see a man who works with his hands."
"Pity I'm not much chop in the kitchen."
"How about I make you lunch one day and you give me a quote on a wall?"