My favourite table is available indoors, facing the window, which, for pandemic protocol reasons, is flung wide open all year round for ventilation, so I can hearing the bellowing fellowship outside, about a dozen feet away. I take my seat philosophically. They won't be there long.
As the group disperses, a bellowing fellow, having stood up, looks in the window as I happen to glance up. I calmly avert my gaze, and resume my perusal of the journals on my table.
I hear him muttering, but there's a mischievous edge to it. I look up to see his head and shoulders silhouetted in the window, but I can make out the sly grin on his face.
I shake my head, and cheerfully thumb my nose at him.
The shop-owner is on counter-duty this morning, and is making her rounds, disinfecting the tables (another pandemic protocol).
I barely resist the urge to tell her to squirt him.
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