Seated, corner-hidden between outside night and inside dim-lit lights. Waiting, watching, stealing the company's time and money. Cushions coax work-weariness, while the bar bustles with celebrations of matrimony. Core-clustering. The rest of the restaurant's tables are unseated; vacant satellites.
A child sprints away from the group. Runs the wrong way down the aisle; escapes groom and flower girls. Her mother pursues, an attractive aged-wine woman. Livened loins. The kid stops, close, and stares ceilingward. Sights spirits in display lights. Spins. Shouts.
This is vision.
