Sally sat at her usual table in her favourite café. Every Saturday morning, she liked to observe the people around her without being noticed. It was her favourite day of the week, with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a warm hint of cinnamon in the air.
She sipped her cappuccino, nibbled on a toasted tea cake, and let her mind wander. It wasn’t the coffee she came for, not really, it was the people. She loved to watch them, to imagine the stories which formed their lives. She didn’t have a boyfriend; her last one had suddenly got the urge to travel. She had been more than okay with his decision, even encouraged him, and she was in no hurry to be attached to someone again.
Every Saturday, she picked a person or couple, noted the drinks they ordered, their body language, the way they spoke to the barista, and whether they maintained eye contact with her. The smallest details revealed so much, or so she imagined. Some were regulars, they held less interest for her as she may have toyed with them in her head on a previous occasion. There was no fun in repetition.
That day, Sally chose a young woman sitting at a table across the room from her. The woman had long, dark hair, pulled back loosely with a colourful elastic band of beads, pale green and coral. She was dressed in a loose sweater, faded jeans, and sneakers; an outfit which gave an impression of carefree abandon. Her hands were wrapped around a cup of tea, and she kept her head down, reading something on her phone or maybe staring at the screen to look busy. She was waiting for someone and didn’t want to appear too eager.
Sally watched, and the woman fidgeted with the edge of her sweater, pulling it down, her eyes darting up every now and then to check the door. Despite the image she was trying to portray, there was a tension in her body. She judged the woman to be in her late twenties, only a few years older than herself. She lived alone, or maybe a shared house, not married. Her work was demanding, a job that required her to appear professional, today’s outfit was possibly a break from her weekday formality. She was struggling with something else. A breakup, a new meet, a family issue? Something was about to come to a head.
Sally sipped her cappuccino, the mug warming her fingers as she continued to observe. She gave the woman a name, Olivia. She ought to be more confident, meet whatever was coming with certainty, take charge of her situation. Sally smiled to herself. Olivia might be engaged, about to meet her partner.
She took another sip of coffee, and glanced back at Olivia, noticing something different. Olivia was still there, still cradling her cup of tea, but something about her had shifted. She was fidgeting, her eyes darting around, distracted. A nervous smile was playing at her lips. It wasn’t a big change, but it was significant. And she was playing with a ring on the third finger of her left hand. Twisting it round.
Could Olivia’s future, the one Sally had conjured in her mind, be starting to take shape? Sally did nothing but observe, but now it was like the woman was living the version of her which Sally had created. The thought sent a shiver down Sally’s spine.
Olivia took the ring off her finger, pushed it into an inside pocket of a small bag, stood, pushed her cup away from her, picked up her phone, and left the café. Sally watched her go, and as Olivia disappeared through the door, Sally felt a sense of satisfaction, as though she played a part in her life, in a small, unseen way.
The following Saturday, Sally returned and was lucky to find the same table, her favourite one. She had noticed a pattern over the past weeks. Whenever she focused on someone, they seemed to subtly change, as though her attention on them were a kind of catalyst. But she didn’t fully understand it, and she didn’t want to believe it to be real. The idea that she could shape someone’s life by thinking about them, was far too great a responsibility.
A barista with bright pink hair and a grating, high pitched voice, had returned. She had been missing for a few weeks and Sally assumed she had moved on to another job, or another town, or been jailed for drug possession or theft. None of those scenarios had felt quite right. Maybe she simply didn’t work many Saturdays.
Olivia was also there, but not alone this time. The man opposite her was short, broad-shouldered, with dark hair. Sally couldn’t see his face clearly, just a hint of his profile whenever he glanced over at the barista. The couple were talking, but not in an animated way; more like people dancing around what needed to be said.
Sally leaned forward in her chair and watched them closely. The way they sat together suggested a long history. They knew each other well, perhaps too well. The way the woman crossed her legs and turned her body to one side was defensive, the man leaned forward slightly when he spoke; he was intent, demanding. These were the small details Sally loved. She could already imagine their story.
Olivia was an artist, not a professional, living in a shabby apartment above a small gallery in the bohemian part of the town. The man, Jonathon, worked at a bookstore, wanted to be a writer, but his ambition would never be realised. They had met years ago, at a party thrown by a mutual friend. Sally imagined the spark which had united them, both creatives, albeit in different fields. Their friendship eventually deepened into something more, at least on his side. Olivia didn’t want to be distracted from her art. They had become one of those couples who could finish each other’s sentences. They no longer had ways to surprise one another.
As Sally watched them, she noticed that Olivia seemed slightly preoccupied, her fingers playing with the ring that was back on her finger. Jonathon was also distracted, his eyes flicking between the door and the barista. Sally knew something was off between them. Their engagement was about to be dissolved. But who was going to make the first move.
At a crossroads, their relationship fragile, their paths diverging, everything had changed in the space of a few minutes. For Sally, the couple had gone from soulmates to two separate people. She could see it clearly now. Olivia, still full of dreams about living as an artist, was growing restless, yearning for a life that was more of her own devising. Jonathon, terrified of change, was concealing a secret. He had always thought they were perfect together, but the truth was, he had fallen for someone else, someone who shared his passion to become a writer.
Sally closed her eyes for a moment, imagining what might happen next. She could see Olivia deciding to move to a quieter town, maybe by the sea, where she could paint without distraction. She saw Jonathon pretending to convince her to stay, but without his heart in it. The conversation would be emotional. The barista, who Jonathon had been seeing secretly, would intervene. Maybe Olivia would storm out of the cafe in tears. And Jonathon would always be haunted by the memory of her, wondering if he had made the right choice.
When Sally opened her eyes, the barista had left her station at the counter, pretending to clear tables, but edging closer to Olivia and Jonathon. She must want to know what was being said. Olivia was no longer playing with the ring on her finger. She was trying to remove it, but it caught on her knuckle. She was sitting up straighter, her eyes focused on Jonathon. He was glancing nervously at the pink-haired barista, who was now at the table immediately behind Olivia.
For the first time, Sally was certain that she was in fact driving the scene before her. Realising the full weight of her own power was exhilarating. She was heady with the power of her observation, her imagination, the way she could shape their lives with nothing more than a thought. They had become her vision of who they were meant to be.
The barista, Simone, was watching Jonathon. Olivia turned to see who he was looking at and was instantly aware of their connection. The ring came off her finger, but she hesitated. Olivia had planned to throw the ring across the table and storm out. But she stood, slowly, calmly, put her phone in her bag and turned to face the barista.
Sally knew exactly what Olivia was going to say before she spoke. She offered the ring to Simone, told her she hoped she had better luck with it, and walked slowly out of the cafe, leaving the other two staring at each other.
Jonathon and Simone left the café a few minutes later, she having thrown her apron on the counter with only a few words of explanation to the manager. Sally watched them go with a deep sense of satisfaction. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew that her imagined versions of them would go on to live better lives, ones only she could create.
Olivia would enjoy some success but not fame. She would eventually settle with someone who made her laugh. Jonathon and Simone’s future was somewhat less happy. She thought Simone would return to her post within the hour, having returned Jonathon’s ring to him. She wasn’t ready for marriage, and certainly not to Jonathon.
Sally never spoke to the people she observed, the people whose lives she helped shape through her thoughts, her quiet, unspoken narrative.
A few weeks later, Sally returned. She had grown to rely on the rhythm of her ritual. Watching people, imagining their lives, and seeing those lives take shape, was addictive. But today, she had a sense of anticipation, as though something was about to change in her routine. She arrived early than usual, wanting to ensure her claim on her corner table. The familiar buzz of conversation and the rich scent of fresh brewed coffee filled the air.
Sipping her chai latte, a change from her usual cappuccino, Sally’s attention wandered around the room. Simone, the young barista with the pink hair and the awful voice was there, but no sign of Jonathon. Some of the others were regulars who seemed to drift in and out of her line of sight each week. But it wasn’t them she was drawn to.
Her attention was caught by a man sitting alone at a table in the opposite corner. He had pen hovering over an open notebook. He was unusual and worth further attention.
Sally tilted her head, watching him carefully. She normally had an instinct for people, but this man was different. He was hard to read. She thought she might have seen him before, at that same table, but wasn’t sure. He kept glancing at her, every time scribbling a few words in his notebook.
Sally found herself stirring sugar into her drink. She didn’t take sugar. She was nervous, her boyfriend was due to arrive any moment, and she was sure he was going to propose to her soon. They had been together since their school days, but she couldn’t remember his name. Then it came to her, his name was Peter. How could she have forgotten that. She would tell Peter her news as soon as he turned up, hoping he would be excited by the news that she was pregnant.
The man with the notebook smiled when she looked his way and jotted down something else.