On her lunch break, a waitress brings hers own noodles to sit beside me.

Crispy chicken in broth, with soft white udon, same as mine.

I watch her carefully through the corner of my eye, and through the darkened reflections in the glass before us.

The delicacy with which  she eats puts my heavy handed shovelling to shame. I remember not to blow my nose as she carefully raises her bowl to sip.

Her hands are delicate, but strong and sure. She has outwitted me, and brought her own chopsticks. My own disposable items broke jaggedly, exaggerating my relative ineptitude.

We slurp quietly together; worlds apart. In a final display, I drop my chopstick and she smiles kindly, once.

She finishes before me and returns to work.

When I rise to leave, I realise that she has placed a tiny space-heater behind my chair, leaving me in an unwitting bubble of warmth.