In the back room of a pub on Union Square we saw a husband cheating on his wife.
They read like pages from a regulation third-rate romance story. The obviously wealthy man looked about 60, greased back hair, an Ascot Chang shirt and Coach leather briefcase.
She looked in her 30s, poised but to me uncertain about anything but his hands on her breasts.
His hand broke the surface of her shirt, but the moment was extinguished by a rowdy group of yuppies stumbling in from the Barnes & Noble and occupying three tables across the aisle.
The waitress placed their check on the table. The 30-something woman pointedly pushed the check across the table to the man.
I saw the 45-degree angle created when the tip of her double-jointed finger jammed into the receipt and pushed it over the table.
They left separately, 40 seconds apart. He left first.
Not mysterious, not mentally interesting, not unusual.
