Sunday People

Savannah

Rain or shine, I’m here. Same spot every Sunday—corner of 86th, outside this little café that tries hard not to look like it’s trying. Potted plants everywhere, creeping vines like they’re staging a takeover. A record player sits in the middle of the room like some sacred relic, flanked by worn vinyls in cracked sleeves. If you’re brave, you can put one on. Most people aren’t.

Inside, guys with round glasses talk single-origin beans like sommeliers. Girls in flowing maxi dresses hold court about chakras, full moons, mercury in retrograde. I don’t listen. I just sip my cappuccino and let the day pass.

Been doing this three years now. Same seat, iron fence to my right, big umbrella overhead. A couple hours of nothing. No rush, no noise. Just life doing its thing.

And every Sunday, he shows up.

I don’t know his name. Just that it starts with a D. He has a dog—the small, cute kind that looks like it might have anxiety if left alone for too long. He orders iced americanos, always. And he’s been seeing this girl lately—don’t know her name either, but she’s... a lot.

Like walk-into-a-room-and-everything-else-fades kind of gorgeous. The kind of person who probably has comp cards stuffed in her tote and knows exactly which corner of SoHo gives her jawline the best light. She moves like she’s always on the verge of being photographed. She’s not trying to look expensive—she just is.

He might be a model too. Honestly, it’s suspicious if he’s not. That jawline could cut fabric, and the way his hair falls—effortless but clearly engineered—screams old money meets Ralph Lauren campaign. There’s a confidence in the way he wears those fitted T-shirts, like he knows exactly what they do to people. And if the cut of his arms means anything, he’s putting in reps—curls, deadlifts, protein shakes, the whole script.

And sue me—he’s hot. Objectively, universally, pause-mid-sentence kind of hot. Try acting normal when someone like that is in your peripheral vision every Sunday. I dare you.

We’ve never spoken. Just a few glances, quick and quiet. Me, pretending to read. Him, half-distracted—by his dog, his phone, the girl. I’ve never made a move. Not even a cracked smile. What would be the point? She exists like a highlight reel. I’m... more B-roll. She’s not just out of my league—she’s out of my algorithm.

Still, I watch.

Not in a weird way. More like watching a familiar scene in a movie. You know what’s coming, but you watch anyway. They have a rhythm. He always shows up first. Orders his drink, settles in with the dog. She arrives five, maybe ten minutes later, always in something flowy and perfect and somehow wrinkle-free.

Some weeks they laugh. He leans in, she throws her head back, the kind of laugh that takes up space. Other weeks, it’s quieter. She stays on her phone. He picks at the label on his cup. One time, she left before the barista even called her name.

I noticed.

But I didn’t stare. I turned a page, like always. Took a sip. Let the moment pass, the way I let most things pass. That’s my ritual here. I observe. I sip my cappuccino. I watch the city move without me.

It’s become a kind of voyeuristic hobby. A soft, quiet escape. Me—twenty-six, boring, chronically average Savannah. Curly hair that never listens. A job that pays just enough to keep me showing up. A calendar filled with reminders to buy oat milk and text my mom back. I’m not tragic or dramatic, just... standard issue.

And across the sidewalk, on the other side of the glass, is everything I’m not.

That life—the model boyfriend, the perfect girlfriend, the dog with a trendy name, the laughter that seems effortless, even cinematic—it doesn’t feel real. It feels curated, glossy. Like something ripped out of a lifestyle campaign. But still, I watch it like it’s mine. Or could be, in a different version of my life where I made different choices or was born with different bone structure.

There’s something about them, him especially, that pulls my gaze. Not just because he’s good-looking—though, let’s be honest, he absolutely is—but because he seems like someone who belongs to the city in a way I never have. Like he doesn’t have to try to exist here. He just does. Confident. Comfortable. Seen.

Whereas I fade. Into the seat, the sidewalk, the pages of my book. Always watching, never quite starring.

So I sit here, week after week, a passive observer to someone else’s main character energy. And maybe that’s sad. Or maybe it’s safe. Because nothing ever hurts when it’s happening to someone else.

Another Sunday. Like clockwork.

I walk into the café—same creaky door, same earthy swirl of espresso and steamed milk, same playlist of retro soul on low volume, as if the speakers know not to interrupt the vibe. I head straight to my usual spot outside, under the wide umbrella near the rusted iron fence. My little corner of the city where I get to be still while everything else moves.

I don’t need the menu. I never do. One cappuccino—extra hot, foam like a cloud. I sit, Kindle in hand, pick up my thriller again. A detective chasing a killer through foggy European alleys. Berlin? Prague? Who knows. My eyes trace the words, but the story doesn’t quite stick. My attention’s not in the book. It’s in the air. In the ritual.

And then, right on cue, he appears.

He walks in from the east side, like he always does. Same confident gait. Same no-effort style that still somehow looks editorial. His little dog trots beside him, leash slack, ears bouncing with every step. Like they’re both characters in a movie that only plays on Sundays.

He steps to the counter, orders an iced americano—no deliberation, no small talk. Efficient, familiar. But today… he’s alone.

No long dress brushing the tile. No glint of oversized sunglasses or flash of Instagram-ready skin. Just him. And the dog.

My eyes flick up, instinctive. Then down again. Then back up.

He looks the same. Technically. But something’s different. The set of his shoulders, maybe. The absence of expectation. He doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t check the door. He just stands there, quietly, like someone who’s been stood up. Or finally stopped waiting.

Did they fight? Did she leave? Did she just… fade out of the frame?

I shouldn’t care.

But I do.

Not in some triumphant way. I don’t want drama. I just feel the shift. The beat missed in the usual rhythm. The script left unfinished. It’s the first time in three years I’ve seen him truly solo, and suddenly this Sunday feels less like a ritual and more like a question.

I turn another page, eyes glazed, cappuccino cooling.

And I watch.

Just a little longer than I usually let myself.

He sips his coffee, pets the little dog—scratches behind the ears like he’s done it a thousand times—then scrolls his phone with the kind of blank expression people wear when they’re not really reading, just filling space. I glance down at my Kindle again, pretend to read a paragraph I’ve already read twice.

Then he looks up.

And for the first time, he looks in my direction. Not past me. Not through me. At me.

Like he’s just now realizing there’s always been someone tucked into this corner seat by the iron fence. Someone who’s been here as often as he has.

Our eyes meet.

He gives a polite nod. Simple. Casual. Not flirty, not weird. Just a quiet acknowledgment.

For a second, I assume it’s not meant for me. Maybe someone’s walking behind me, maybe his ex is strutting down the sidewalk with a vengeance. I instinctively turn to look.

No one.

When I turn back, he’s smiling. Barely. But it’s there. A crooked little smirk that says gotcha.

And before I can overthink it, I nod back. Awkward. Delayed.

It’s nothing. A blip. A flicker of contact in a sea of coffee foam and sidewalk noise.

But it’s more than we’ve ever shared before.

And suddenly, this Sunday doesn’t feel like all the others.

We part ways like nothing happened. No words, no lingering glances. Just a nod shared over lukewarm drinks and the quiet hum of a city that never really stops.

But somehow, it stays with me.

The rest of the week, I catch myself thinking about it—way more than I should. This blink-of-an-eye moment where Hot Model Guy (that’s his official title now, obviously) acknowledged my existence. Me. The girl in the corner with the cappuccino and Kindle, wearing the same rotation of jeans and oversized sweaters like a cartoon character.

It’s absurd, I know. I work at a bank, for God’s sake. I spend most days in a stiff chair behind bulletproof glass asking people if they want small bills or large. My greatest thrill this week was someone depositing a crumpled check with glitter on it. That’s the level I’m operating on.

And yet, there I am—on lunch break, zoning out, stirring a yogurt that I don’t even want, daydreaming about the way his eyes crinkled slightly when he smirked. How casual that nod was. How it somehow cracked open a door I didn’t know was there.

I replay it in my head like a scene from a show I’m secretly obsessed with. One where the regular girl catches the attention of the unattainable guy. Nothing dramatic. No background music swelling. Just a moment. A pause. A “what if.”

Ridiculous, I know. I’m not delusional—I’m aware he’s probably already forgotten I exist. He’s probably been to two shoots, three parties, and at least one rooftop bar since that nod.

But still.

It’s wild what one small moment can do to an otherwise completely average week.

“Seeing someone?” Betty asks, not looking up from her desk. She’s typing with two fingers, aggressively. Betty’s in her fifties, been at this bank longer than I’ve been alive, lives in Brooklyn, swears she’ll never leave—even if Trader Joe’s moves in across the street and ruins the neighborhood’s soul.

“What?” I glance over, caught off guard.

“Course not.”

She hums, unimpressed. “You’ve been floating around here like someone sent you flowers. Don’t lie to me, Savannah. I’ve seen that look before.”

“There’s no look,” I say, which of course means there absolutely is.

Betty pauses. Slowly swivels her chair to face me. “Let me guess. He’s tall, probably has a good coat, and doesn’t know you exist.”

I blink.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “It’s worse than I thought.”

I laugh, despite myself. “It’s nothing. Just a guy at this coffee shop I go to. We’ve never even talked.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me you’ve fallen for a fantasy.”

“I haven’t fallen for anything,” I say. “He nodded. That’s it.”

Betty gives me a long, pitying look, like she’s watching someone willingly walk into traffic. “A nod. Wow. Is that what passes for romance now?”

“I work at a bank, Betty. I’ve been here since I was twenty-two. You think I’m swimming in romantic opportunities?”

She snorts. “Fair.”

I turn back to my screen, but the spreadsheet’s just numbers. I’m still thinking about the nod. About the smirk. About how he looked straight at me like I wasn’t just background noise.

It’s stupid.

But it’s sticking.

Another Sunday rolls around, and I’m more anxious than I want to admit.

Will he nod again? Maybe say something? Maybe—God forbid—something actually happens?

I don’t know. I tell myself it’s stupid, that it was just a look, a nod, a glitch in the matrix of routine. But still, I swipe on some lip gloss before I leave the apartment.

Not for him, obviously. Just… in general. Because hydration. Because self-care. Because reasons.

I walk in. Café smells the same. Warm milk, toasted beans, cinnamon if someone ordered the chai. I do the usual—order my cappuccino without looking at the board, give a nod to the barista who recognizes me by now, maybe even knows my drink better than I do.

I head outside to my spot. Same seat. Same umbrella. Same iron fence. I sit my ass down like it’s a ritual that keeps the universe from falling apart. I pull out my Kindle, open the book, reread the same paragraph three times.

And then I spot him.

He’s walking in from the usual direction, same easy pace, same little dog trotting loyally beside him.

But there’s something else.

A girl. The girl. Model. Cheekbones.

Wrapped around his arm, pressed close like she belongs there. She’s laughing at something he’s saying—or maybe he’s not even saying anything, maybe she just likes the sound of her own delight. She’s in one of those effortless outfits that probably cost more than my rent, with sunglasses pushed up on her head like a crown.

And just like that, my dumb little delusion deflates.

So. They’re together.

I stare at my cappuccino. The foam has already started to fade.

I try to focus on my book again, but the words blur. I turn a page just to feel like I’m doing something, but I don’t know what’s happening in the story. The detective could be dead for all I know.

This is why I don’t let myself get hopeful. Hope is a trap. It’s just disappointment wearing lip gloss, pretending it has plans.

They sit down a few tables away, talking animatedly, all energy and easy body language. I can’t hear what they’re saying—thank God—but I can see everything I need to. Her hand brushing his arm like it’s instinct. His smile, relaxed. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t have to.

I look down at my cappuccino. The foam’s deflated. Fitting.

What was I even thinking? That this guy—this literal cover-model-looking guy—nodded at me because… why? He thought I was cute?

Please.

He was probably being polite. Or bored. Or thought I looked vaguely familiar. Maybe I had spinach in my teeth and he was trying not to laugh.

Guys like that don’t go for girls like me.

They don’t go for the bank teller in off-brand jeans who spends her Sunday mornings sipping cappuccinos and re-reading thrillers on a Kindle like she’s a middle-aged divorcee with three cats and a chronic case of wishful thinking.

They go for glossy. For shiny. For the kind of beauty that gets scouted in Whole Foods and owns at least two pairs of leather pants. Girls with faces that don’t need filters and lives that come with PR-ready narratives.

I shift in my seat. Consider leaving. But that feels too dramatic, like storming off in a movie where no one’s watching.

So I stay.

I read a page. Don’t absorb it.

Sip my drink. Burn my tongue a little.

Remind myself I wasn’t actually in anything to begin with. You can’t be heartbroken over a nod.

Still… I wish he hadn’t smiled like that.