Every morning, he looks only at her reflection in the window. His eyes cannot imagine gazing directly at that which is so lovely. From his distance, he observes lips that crease from constant laughter, eyes that sparkle as they skim a page of the book she has brought. He sees the steam from her latte diminish as it cools besides her unaware left hand. Her cheek dimples as she bites at the inside, a habit when she forgets to allow reality its realism. Thirty beats of her watch, thirty clicks of the minute hand in his cafe clock, and then he observes the begrudging furrow between her brows. The same regret echoes in his chest. There is a snap in the air as her book is shut, a final sip of her now cool cup, and she slips outside to the brownstones and clouds. He moves to her now empty table to clear and to clean. His heavy stare falls on the window glass to witness his reflection. Arms full of her remains, he turns away.