You'll have to take my word for it.
I am that shadowy presence there; so barely discernable that I can only appear annotated.
This is insignificant I grant you.
Nobody else would remark it.
My attention drifts around the tables.
"I have scaled these city walls,
Only to be with you..."
All is interrupted by a clatter of plates in the scullery.
We are criss-crossing sound-traces of vitality.
We are incidentally thus.
A table number?
A sticky-toffee pudding?
The IPA tasted good.
There is a folded napkin.
It is next to an empty glass.
"I still haven't found what I'm looking for."
There is no life here but marginalia.