Sylvia and George Share a Sandwich

Michael had watched them both for weeks, from the comfort of his home which afforded a bird’s eye view of Berkeley Square. The man would arrive first, promptly at 8:07 (give or take a minute), brush off the park bench (always the same park bench) with his gloved hand and lay his plaid blanket upon it  (a cushion against the world of microbes and detritus of mankind?).  He would open his newspaper (the Herald, always the Herald). She would arrive a few minutes later and sit down, always on his left, glinting into the morning sun. He would take two large coffees from his Starbucks bag. George, Sylvia. Two large no-foam decafs. They even drank the same coffee. She would take a large sandwich (always tuna with tomato and lettuce, brown bread) from her large purse for them to share. As far as Michael could discern, they never exchanged a word, barely a glance. She would be the first to leave, at 8:41, heading down towards Picadilly. The man would sit for three more minutes more, then carefully fold the blanket and his newspaper, throw the crusts in the bin, head North across the park and disappear.

Were they spies, silent lovers, what? As Michael swooped down from the nest to reclaim the crusts of their morning sandwich, he made peace with the observation that people were inscrutable to begin with. Why even bother to try?