She used to kiss him through the car window. Now she walks to the market alone.

She used to kiss him through the car window. Now she walks to the market alone.

Every Thursday morning, I sat in the coffee shop with my lukewarm cappuccino and my half-hearted attempt at journaling.

It had become part of my ritual since I moved to this quiet town on the Oregon coast. Nothing much really happened there, but that was the point.

After six years in Seattle, I needed a place where the noise wouldn’t find me. The market opened late, the air smelled of salt and bread, and people, for the most part, kept to themselves. It was all I wanted.

Except I couldn’t stop looking at them.

Every Thursday at nine o’clock, a silver Ford Crown Victoria would pull up right in front. The driver was an older man, always wearing a tweed jacket, even in summer.

and his white hair slicked back as if he had somewhere important to go. But he never got out. Instead, he waited, hands folded on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the sidewalk.

And then she would come.

She moved slowly, cane in hand, but with a serene dignity that seemed untouched by time. Always wearing a pink cardigan, always carrying a black bag.

Her lips were a faint pink. She leaned out of the open window of the Ford and kissed him softly on the cheek.

—or sometimes on my lips—and I’d whisper something to him, bringing that smile to his face you only see on people who know something you don’t. Then he’d straighten up, adjust his bag, and limp into the market as if I hadn’t made his day.

I didn’t know them. Not their names, not their story. I never greeted them, never even looked them in the eye.

I just sat across the street, pretending to write while I waited for that kiss. It made everything feel less heavy. As if love never expired.