The chair beside the window was always empty. Not reserved, the owner said. Just empty.
On wet afternoons, people put bags on it. On sunny ones, they shifted away from the glare. The chair remained useful without anyone actually sitting there.
A woman carrying a sketchbook came in one morning and chose it immediately. She ordered tea, opened a page, and began drawing the cup.
“You have the best seat,” said a man at the next table.
“For what?”
He glanced at the window. “I was going to say the view.”
“The shadow,” she said, turning the page a little. “It moves while I draw. I keep having to look again.”
He had been reading the same paragraph for several minutes. Now he saw the bright edge on the spoon, the tiny scratch in the tabletop, a rectangle of light touching the floor.
“Does that make it difficult?”
“A little. It makes it interesting too.”
They returned to their separate things. She drew. He read. No names were exchanged, and neither felt a need to make the moment larger.
When she left, the chair was empty again. This time he moved his bag off the other one.