There I was, sitting at my usual table at Pepper Chair, my second-favorite place to write (first place goes to my plot, obviously). I had a glass of red wine in hand, Book of Conspiracy – Part 2 open in front of me, and I was deep in the world of Silas Corbyn, government coverups, and mysterious frequencies. You know, just your average Monday.

But then something real-life and oddly captivating started playing out just one table over.

A man, around 70. White hair. Speaking English with a Welsh-South African blend of an accent. Calm. Relaxed. He’s sharing how he just bought a home by the sea in Cape Town. Retirement is treating him well, he says.

Across from him sits a woman, about 35. Afrikaans, sharp as a tack. She speaks to him in Afrikaans. He responds in English. And yet, there’s no language barrier, just this gentle dance between two people from different corners of the world, both understanding one another perfectly. It’s beautiful in a way.

She’s in marketing, that much is clear. She’s pitching. Selling ideas. Perhaps it’s a branding campaign. A digital footprint expansion. Something clever and ambitious.

He listens, nods politely, but now and then pushes back. He’s not convinced by “reach” and “audience engagement.” He wants stories. Substance. Maybe even a touch of legacy. You can tell he’s not easily impressed, and she, to her credit, is rising to the occasion.

And suddenly, I can’t help but wonder...

How did these two end up here?

A business deal? A mentorship arrangement? A daughter of an old friend, trying to get a foot in the door? Is she a freelancer with grit, chasing leads the old-fashioned way, one coffee shop table at a time?

Or is this something even more interesting? Maybe he’s testing her. Maybe he’s one of those quiet angel investors who hides in plain sight. Maybe this conversation is the first pebble that triggers an avalanche of opportunity.

I’ll never know.

They got up, shook hands, and left. No drama. No contracts. Just a brief handshake between two people whose paths crossed, at least for a little while.

And me?

I’m still sitting here, smiling to myself. Because sometimes, the best stories aren’t written, they just happen a table away.