They have to be dating. Of course I don't know for sure. It's just, well, married couples that age—what are they, early-to-mid 40s?—don’t listen to each other with that much intensity. They no longer lean into the conversation; If there is conversation at all. What seems much more common these days is Wife looks at phone, Husband looks at everyone else. But not these two; They are very interested in each other.

They are both relatively fit: Not magazine cover-ready, but it’s obvious by their physiques and clothing choices that they exercise regularly. Full-sleeve tattoos on both of them hint that CrossFit is the regimen of choice. We don’t know many CrossFitters at our age, but I have learned to recognize the tells. They like people to know they are Crossfitters. (Doesn’t seem all that different from the “Grinder PT” we did in the service. Wish I would have thought to package that and sell it for $200 a month.)

She wears a white t-back over orange sports bra with blue Lululemons and white sneakers to match her white ball cap. He wears black tee and gray shorts with low-top Converse. The words “Cleared Hot” across his tee combined with the wrap-around Oakleys and close-cut hair—what’s left of it—scream that he was Army in his younger years. Her unbalanced physique screams augmentation.

I finally saw their hands. No rings.

They're sitting outside, the warm Sunday sun something that those of us from the Pacific Northwest know not to take for granted. To their left and right signs of youth: A table full of college-age women in various athletic wear that reads more 'just rolled out of bed' than 'heading to the gym;' A young woman confidently wearing animal print spandex and carrying longboard, a combo that would be unthinkable to anyone of us over thirty (or double that plus some in our case).

A Goth Grrrl enters the cafe and my thoughts drift to Portlandia. My grandson Brando turned me on to that show. I have to admit I don’t get all of the skits, but the show is fantastic. She reminds me of the sketch about how hard it is for Creatures of the Realm of Sorrow to deal with August. She’s adapted the best she can without losing her 'edge,' still sporting dark jeans and Doc Martins, her lacy tank exposing enough milk-white skin to at least allow for some evaporative cooling.

You know me. I can't turn it off, even if I'm no longer doing it for a living. It's just part of me now, I guess.

Anyway, another couple is sitting at a table close to the window. Youthful. Gorgeous. He is still young enough to have a square jaw and wear a short-sleeve button up without a fat roll-covering tee underneath. His Sports Clips hair cut and weekend stubble give the appearance of one who works in something office-bound: finance or banking or insurance. All of the Covid-created work-from-home men I run across now dress like children from the neck down, but from the neck up remind me of the 70s. Lots of hair and whiskers. Not him. He's still professional. She is shorter than he, but neither are very tall. He is white, her dark hair and eyes and skin, combined with a small woven hat, remind me of South America for some reason. Bolivia, maybe? I make a note to spend some time learning more about ‘Our Neighbors to the South.’ Maybe take another trip next winter. You up for it?

They have an adorable child, maybe a year old or less. She points at me and I wave. She waves back and her parents smile, proud of the simple gesture in a way that only young, first time parents can be. Everything is magic.

He sits with his back toward the door. I briefly consider chatting with him about his role as a protector, but I don’t want to intrude on their morning. And things are different now. He's probably fine not facing the door.

Well, people are different; Things are the same.

There are the usual smattering of Weekend Riders that clomp around awkwardly in their biking shoes, wearing stretchy, branded clothing as though they are taking a small break from the tour-de-France to grab a cinnamon roll and and vanilla latte.

The goth grrrl draws a bit of attention as she busses her own spot at the bar. Ironically, it’s her mortal enemy The Sun at fault for drawing eyes to her as the light coming in through the massive front windows reflects off of her belly button ring and makes the blue highlights hiding in her jet black hair suddenly seem to glow. I figure every generation has their Goths, in a manner of speaking, who live inside the cognitive dissonance of trying at once to disappear behind white makeup and long bangs while drawing attention for their quasi-S&M clothing and Wednesday Addams charm. I wonder what ever happened to Elvira?

The young couple with the child are all smiles. There’s something so endearing about it: the energy and good health of youth combined with the positive attention thrown their way via their adorable offspring, all of which is still free from the emotional scarring and re-scarring that comes with long-term monogamy and (eventually) teenaged children. They have yet to attend marriage counseling or over-stretched school athletic calendars or the first time junior crashes the family car or says 'I hate you.' They are merely two people closer to their honeymoon than their first high school reunion, who look at their precious child as the physical embodiment of their undying love for each other.

It has to be that way, though, or every child would be an only child. It’s designed that way: Procreate while you’re still naively smitten. How many of us second and third siblings are only here because our parents were still enveloped in the fog of romantic ignorance?

That’s why young-married pregnancies are a surprise of timing--the one time of many that 'took'--while surprise pregnancies in older couples can be usually be traced back to a singular event. (In my case, Xander—eight years younger than his youngest sibling—was the result of an interrupted drive home after a Johnny Mathis concert. You tell Ver I told you that and I'll make sure Bettie finds out about Orlando '96!)

I need to shake off my grumbly attitude. Even after 51 years of marriage, four children, eight grandchildren, and one great-grandchild I am still mostly smitten with my beloved. ...It is different, though. There’s a sense of nostalgic longing to my musings nowadays that, in spite of being aware of it, it still stings. Or maybe aches is the right word? Not an acute pain, but merely a ‘thorn in my side,’ something I’m only conscious of when observing others.

I’m not alone in this. No, not you. A husband and wife in their mid-50s are also ‘people watching.’ He has what I assume to be the same flattop and well-groomed mustache he’s had since the 80s. She, on the other hand, sports bangs and a long hair that give her a much more youthful look. They dress the same, though, as older couples do. Gray t-shirts, denim shorts, tennis shoes with white athletic socks.

His belly is high, as though the weight gain is something more recent. Beer-based maybe.

They don’t make ‘gooey’ eyes at each other like the young couple with the child, still smitten. Nor do they both lean into every word like the dating 40-year-olds. They talk in small bursts. Otherwise, they look around, watching the people near them.

A young family in church clothes takes the table nearest the 50-somethings. Four kids, the oldest maybe eight, the youngest maybe eight months. They look like they’re dressed for a family photo, and, sure enough, they ask the 50-something man if he’ll snap one for them. He is happy to do so.

Another married couple, maybe late 40s, bus their outdoor tables, bringing their dishes into the cafe. They are out-of-shape, but their outfits hint at youthful feelings: His a The Sandlot tee shirt; Her a razorback tank.

They are followed in by two young couples, strangers to each other, also in various stages of dating. (Again, there’s no way to know—not without a considerable breach of common decency—but if I had to guess Couple One have been intimately involved for at least six months, wherein Couple Two—based on the change to her countenance when she saw him—may be within a few days of ‘first discovery.’)

As an aside, you remember when tattoos were largely a sign that—like us—a man had been a sailor at one point in his life. Or at least overseas? They were usually in places easily covered, my own--if you remember, a crudely drawn reminder of my time patrolling the rivers Nam—requires that I be shirtless to be viewed. Somewhere along the line, though, tattoos became mainstream. Again, maybe this is something of a PNW trait--you'll have to tell me about what it's like in Texas these days--but if I had to make a guess based on what I’ve seen just this morning, I’d wager that some 80% of the adults that have entered the coffee shop have had at least one visible tattoo. Most having many more; Entire limbs covered; Thousands of dollars of body work.

If I was a younger and had any sort of artistic ability I would strongly consider pursuing being a tattoo-ist? Tattooer? Whatever they call themselves, they have to be making decent go of things.

A man around our age sat near me. We exchanged the ‘old guy nod’ in way of recognition. He's wearing the uniform of an aging folk guitarist: Long gray pony tail, well-trimmed beard, jaunty, feathered hat, hiking boots with exact-length 501s, PBS tote with a recently checked-out book that he heard about on NPR.

He is too slender for the waffles he’s eating to be a regular meal. Now I think maybe I should order some. Not sure if I can take the hit to my blood sugar, but it almost seems worth it to find out.

I've finished my Americano. Probably time to pack up my things. I suppose I can leave these nice people to their morning without my secretive observations. Maybe Janey is right in saying I missed my calling, that I should have been a G-Man or a detective or something. I would wager that salesman develop this trait much faster than investigators, though. If they want to eat, that is.

As I'm leaving the young couple with the child stand to go as well. He busses the table, balancing the dishes, clench-jawed in concentration. She picks up the beautiful little girl and carries her between her arm and her very-pregnant belly.

The hazy fog or young romantic love struck again.

Told you so.