It made her uncomfortable sitting by the window. She felt on display like the live models in the window of the sex shop down the street. That was alright for some people, she supposed, but she didn’t like people looking at her much. She’d been coming to this place for years, always in the daytime when it wasn’t crowded, the dark wood and dim lights giving her a modicum of privacy. She always ordered Creemore, just one.

Sitting, sipping, flipping through vacation pictures, tossing out the ones with him in them, thinking of other things, distracted. There were five rolls; 180 prints. Approximately. Her burrito arrived via dispassionate waitress. She always ordered one of these too, the vegetarian kind, although she knew she’d never be able to finish it. The solid mass of bean, the gooey cheese — an unusual form of comfort food, but it was. She even liked the iceberg lettuce that everyone likes to scorn; it is watery and refreshing and reminds her of her grandmother’s salads.

She sets the pile of photos aside while she eats. The one on top; she can’t quite remember where she took it. It’s just sand and water, anonymous.

A group of four people walks in, talking loudly. She can feel them glancing over at her while they look for a seat, even though she’s pointedly staring at the table. As they sit down, she feels herself getting full already. She sets down her knife and fork, deciding to take the rest home.

She wipes her hands and picks up the pile of discarded photos, folding them in half. A man with a grey beard is peering into the window, squinting with his hand at his brow. She looks up.