Clara parked a block away, her hands slick with sweat against the steering wheel. She waited a few minutes, pulled her hood over her face, and slipped inside the quiet establishment. The air inside smelled of expensive espresso and low jazz music. She hid herself behind a large architectural pillar near the back, her eyes scanning the dimly lit room.
Through the elegant foliage of the cafe, she spotted Tom sitting at a corner table. Across from him sat a woman. The woman was facing entirely away from Clara, her back turned to the room, revealing only an elegant silhouette, a sharp designer coat, and perfectly styled hair. Clara couldn’t see her face, but she could see Tom perfectly.
A heavy, confusing realization struck Clara as she watched him. Tom didn’t look like a man enjoying a glamorous, exciting affair. Usually, someone sneaking around would look happy, or at least normal, but Tom looked utterly miserable. His shoulders were hunched, and his face was tight with intense worry, anxiety, and a deep, exhausting frustration.
Clara watched in agonizing silence as the mysterious woman slid a thick, professional leather folder across the small table. Tom reached out, his movements filled with a profound, raw appreciation, and placed his hand firmly over the woman’s hand, squeezing it tightly. He looked up at her with a look of desperate, intense gratitude.