She said she was dreaming of a coconut grove. “A coconut grove?” I said. “Where?” On some island somewhere, she said. “Don’t you ever think of traveling, John?” I told her it was mean to say that. She chuffed.
The light in the cafe was expertly manufactured; wherever it fell through the window, banks of mirrors tossed it to the center. “You’ve done a great job with this place,” I said.
She smiled. “I don’t feel the need to be afraid of experimentation anymore.” My heartbeat was a drum and I imagined she could hear it. She gave no sign. “I guess that means I’m getting old.”