From a distance I watch the waiter bring a mound of chicken salad on a bed of lettuce, your usual order, to the table. We used to eat together here, just like this, al fresco. The chicken salad has sliced grapes in it, I think, maybe some walnuts. Your friend, your new girlfriend I’m pretty sure, is having quiche, probably Lorraine, one of my favorites back then. I watch as the waiter pours the coffee, the steam rising from the mugs. The little pitcher of cream. The silver bowl of sugar. There’s a basket of croissants, a saucer with pats of butter, and a single flower, a yellow dahlia, in a tiny vase. You don’t see me because I’m standing in the shadows of the alley across the street, and because you keep your eyes on her. Even if you happened to glance in my direction, you might not recognize me, understandably. I almost think I could walk right up to your table and ask for some change, a few bucks, and you might not look up at me. Even if you did, you still might not know me. But I won’t test this. I refuse to say a word to you, a single word that would ruin your beautiful brunch on this perfect Sunday morning. This is not your fault. I am not your fault. And so I wait in the alley, watch you chew and swallow and sip and smile at her, watch her smile back, watch the two of you rise and walk off down the street, holding hands, until you’re far enough away and I make my move. I run across the street to your table and scoop up the chicken salad left on your plate into a plastic grocery bag, along with the crust of the quiche, and set off in the opposite direction with the busboy’s eyes on my back, crushing the dahlia in my fist.