text: It can be a beautiful thing, sometimes, going through life as a casual observer. Never staying too long in one place, choosing instead to live vicariously through the lives of those in eavesdropping distance. I observe miracles; heartbreak, the nuances of monotony. A common place for this happenstance is a bar I frequent, an understanding meeting ground that knows I'm four drinks deep before I remember its name. There's a revolving door of clientele, the occasional pit stop of a 21 run, tired workers and rejected souls. Among the ever-changing details, there has been a new constant, other than myself. She arrives at 9:45pm sharp, every night. Well put together, ironed clothes and sultry gaze. Dark hair, pinned with a knitting needle, freckles across a button nose and a well-traveled smile. The obviously bare knuckle where a wedding ring would lie, one single glass of Rosé. I never speak to her, in fear of upsetting her routine. She'll watch the clock turn 10:16 and sigh to herself, reach for her coat and quietly slip out the door. Tonight, a fellow observer dares to break the regime. She's come in as normal, but the glass of Rosé is waiting for her. Silence. A wave of panic on an otherwise perfect face. Ninety degree head turn, and disappointment disguised in kindness. She is facing him now, and I can hear the conversational details unwind. “I took the liberty of ordering your drink, and don't worry, the barkeep kept an eye on it. Just wanted to pay it forward.” A quiet, but genuine chuckle. He has a softened gaze, barely thirty by my estimate. Blonde hair carefully sculpted toward the left part, and eyes an evergreen shade. He's braver than I. She is polite, if cautious. “Thank you very much, you didn't have to do that.” It appears this is where she wants the interaction to end, but he presses on. “I see you in here, often. Easy enough to see you aren't in the league of many men here; you're strikingly beautiful, no-nonsense, but hey, I figured. Shoot my shot, right? I'm Louis.” “Charlotte.” A handshake, first contact. He swivels the stool closer to her, leaning his knees in. They engage in small talk for a few minutes, and I almost tune out, dissociate. She seems rather uninterested, but gives polite answers and seems one of sophisticated taste. Louis suddenly electrifies the air, and my ears once again have been pricked with interest. “Always 9:45, a glass of Rosé, and gone by 10:16. I've thought of many bizarre reasons as to why you've picked that routine.” Pointed silence, daring the conversation to draw nearer. Charlotte takes a single sip of her wine, removes her gaze from the clock on the wall. Deep breathing. Preparation. “You seem very observant, Louis. I'm intrigued. What do you think I could be doing here besides trying to enjoy a nice glass of wine after a hard day's work?” He runs his fingers through his hair, raises one eyebrow. “Isn't it obvious?” The tone is condescending at best. She doesn't answer, but places the glass down once more and adjusts her body language accordingly. Full attention. “Charlotte, you gorgeous, unappreciated woman. You're waiting for someone. Someone you know is never going to show up. I can see it in your eyes. The way you look at that clock as if you're begging it to show you mercy.” A cold stare. But shaking hands. “I know we've just met. And you've barely shown any interest,” Louis begins. Charlotte chuckles, suddenly warm and inviting the sentence to continue. Perhaps the honesty was more refreshing than the wine. “But honestly, even in the few minutes we've been talking, I can see you're selling yourself short. A woman of your caliber shouldn't be sitting here waiting for some schmutz to walk into this shitty bar and sweep you off your feet again.” She seems unsure of what to do here. Index finger slowly traces the rim of the glass. Louis presses on. “Unless...maybe, at least for tonight, that schmutz could be me?” Charlotte raises her head to see a toothy grin, flushed red face and an outstretched palm. The universe quietly holding its breath, perhaps at the same pace as this man. I suppose luck was in the agenda for Louis, because I watched her place a slender hand into this offering, and led out the door at 10:08. I do not know the fate of this couple, because I never saw Charlotte and the glass of Rosé again. However, at 10:15 that same night, a crimson haired man walked into this bar, and saw the lonely glass of Rosé on the counter, no beautiful woman to accompany it. An indescribable amount of sorrow upon his face. And I cannot explain why, but in that moment, I knew.