where the writers are
Four People

The couple do not seem to belong together.  Their commonalities begin and end with their pale white skin.  Her skin seems hairless while black hair dominates him.

Seeing her, I think, how elegant she is.  A slender woman enhanced with short blond hair and black sunglasses, her arms, shoulders and legs are bare.  A red dress with minute white polka dots fits her like skin from her upper body down to hips, where the skirt flares and freely swishes around her legs above her knee.  She wears white sandals with kitten heels.

His plaid short sleeve seersucker shirt is purple and lime and open over a white tee shirt with a colorful but indistinguishable front.  His black hair is a spiky dishevelled morning star.  He's a squat body in his cargo shorts, sweat socks and white and black sports shoes.  It's unsure which sport the shoes are to support as they share the clunky, fat soled aspect of many common sport shoes.  His bare neck, forearm and calves display tattoos.

I go through the permutations of possible relationships.  Brother and sister seems improbable.  They separate after ordering.  He sits to await their order and she glides to the restroom.  On her return, they come together and exchange a light, lippy kiss. 

She trudges up the mild hill.  Climbing with an open mouth, sloped shoulders and stooped posture, she appears like she may topple over.  Dressed in black pants and a red scarf, she pauses halfway up the walk, turns and looks back.  She could be headed to the theater or dinner out, perhaps drinks with a friend.  The search behind her doesn't give her what she wants and she trundles on to the crosswalk.  Her hair is brown and her skin is white but her complexion is gray.  Assigning an age to her, I'd guess early fifties with a thick body, too young to be walking as she does, too young for anyone to be walking as she does. 

Straight posture, shoulders squared, she walks past.  Each step is measured without thought to be exactly equal.  Her feet, encased in diminutive sandals, point straight ahead in parallel to one another and her hips barely shift with her stride.  Chin up, she looks straight ahead.

But beginning at her elbows, her arms and hands swing with ropy looseness.  The confluence of the two actions, firm, controlled and measured, and loose and fluid, give rise to the thought that two currents are clashing, like the restless sea in Monterey.