While Waiting for the Food

Somewhere coastal, sometime after sundown.

The table is set, the drinks half gone, the plates not yet full. It’s the in-between moment—the pause before the meal arrives, when conversation either deepens or disappears.

He’s on his phone, thumb scrolling with purpose, eyes locked to the glow. Around him, the restaurant hums: plastic chairs, thatched roof, barefoot kids running between tables, the usual clatter of dishes and casual voices. A holiday place, probably. Warm air, sea salt, and time meant to be slower.

What struck me was not the act—because it’s common—but the woman across from him. Half-hidden, partly blurred, yet watching. Not annoyed, not angry. Just watching. The kind of gaze that says more than it asks. A moment you wouldn’t notice unless you were already looking for it.

This isn’t a critique. It’s a portrait of now. A glimpse of how presence is constantly being renegotiated—between each other, between screens, between seconds.

Dinner will come. The phone will go down. But this moment will have already passed, quietly.