This is the first flash fiction piece that I've completed in a long time; of course it's the second draft, but I want to continue to edit it so I can use it in the future. Constructive feedback would be helpful. 
The Witness
I was once the witness to an illicit affair.
For days I would sit on the patio of Starbucks, book in hand and my half-empty, half-melted frappuccino on the table, and watch as they pulled up in his old, open-air Jeep, their voices drowned out by distance and the labored sputter of its engine. The Jeep would stop in front of her car and they would emerge, lips quirked in neither smile nor frown, and then share a kiss; sometimes it would last mere seconds, while other times it was an extended yearning for more caresses, more kisses, or just more time altogether. And then, with a groaning roar, the Jeep would take off, leaving her to fix her make-up, fix her hair, fumble for her keys and drive to her next destination.
It was the middle of July the first time. The man had entered first, ordering his drink and sitting in a chair by the wall. He looked to be an average man of average stature, sporting a crew cut, loose slacks and an oxford shirt. His eyes would often dart to the doors of the small establishment and he would constantly fiddle with the gold band or straighten the sunglasses nestled atop his prickly hair.
She was a pretty woman with her shiny blonde hair and a mother’s figure. When she sat beside him, the tension was like that of teenagers on their first date. Their hands would crawl against the small tabletop between them, their fingers barely grazing each other’s in a shy, foreign wonder. I couldn’t keep my eyes from their hands, one strong and delicate, the other small and lean; the glitter of gold on her hand didn’t escape me either. I didn’t want to look at their faces, as if not looking up at them would stifle my curiosity.
My eyes couldn’t help but follow as they stood up to leave soon afterwards. In that seemingly short span of time there were no more reservations between them, as their hands were now tightly intertwined. I watched through the window as he walked her to her car. Their kiss was long and unyielding, as if that singular moment would keep them alive just long enough to last the day. They were curled up into one another — his hands in her hair, hers on his back — in the middle of the parking lot, which could understandably incite both intrigue and discomfort.
After that day, I always missed their meetings. By the time I’d arrive, her car — an ivory-colored Ford SUV — would already be parked, and there it would sit for hours at a time, until he returned her to small-town reality. At first, I could only titter with glee. I began to make up different scenarios in my head, some more salacious than others: sometimes they would go to dinner, romancing each other over a bottle of chardonnay and a nice salad and steak, while others would involve a trip straight to Fairfield Inn & Suites to romp around in cheap motel sheets, surrounded by the stench of old cigarette smoke and cleaner. Each time it ended with him bringing her back and leaving, parting with a kiss and nothing else.
I knew the woman had children; a bold, blue “W” magnet was stuck proudly on the back of her car, an insignia of one of the public schools in the area. I wondered if the man had children of his own, maybe a little girl who would have been just old enough to see that this, when found out, would have an irrevocable effect on their family. I wondered if she, at age eleven, would someday sit at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping on the muffled hysterics of her scorned mother whose voice would strain against rage, betrayal and tears as the father pleaded over the phone to give him another chance. I wondered if that girl would wait for a week until his return to their house only to find that she could not quite trust her father again, or any boys and men she would ever date for that matter, and then she, now as a capable twenty-something, would be frightened that the one man she loved more than air would find something in someone else that she didn’t have, seeing as the role of wronged woman was suspiciously genetic.
The last time I saw them, I had witnessed the approach of an older man’s sunset years, watching every evening as he rode up in his rust-colored Harley Davidson, that engine gruffer and more aggressive. He would sit at the corner of the patio, watching the golden sun between pages of his book as he puffed on his cigar. I had all but forgotten them, the parallels I had conjured fading from my memory as I turned my thoughts elsewhere, the experience all but forgotten. They walked past my table, their pace slower more lingering than other times as he led her to her car; they were more aware this time around, more cautious. They were ending.
He glanced at me with a slight smile. Forget you saw anything.
I smiled back. I’ve no clue what you’re talking about.
The Witness
I was once the witness to an illicit affair.
For days I would sit on the patio of Starbucks, book in hand and my half-empty, half-melted frappuccino on the table, and watch as they pulled up in his old, open-air Jeep, their voices drowned out by distance and the labored sputter of its engine. The Jeep would stop in front of her car and they would emerge, lips quirked in neither smile nor frown, and then share a kiss; sometimes it would last mere seconds, while other times it was an extended yearning for more caresses, more kisses, or just more time altogether. And then, with a groaning roar, the Jeep would take off, leaving her to fix her make-up, fix her hair, fumble for her keys and drive to her next destination.
It was the middle of July the first time. The man had entered first, ordering his drink and sitting in a chair by the wall. He looked to be an average man of average stature, sporting a crew cut, loose slacks and an oxford shirt. His eyes would often dart to the doors of the small establishment and he would constantly fiddle with the gold band or straighten the sunglasses nestled atop his prickly hair.
She was a pretty woman with her shiny blonde hair and a mother’s figure. When she sat beside him, the tension was like that of teenagers on their first date. Their hands would crawl against the small tabletop between them, their fingers barely grazing each other’s in a shy, foreign wonder. I couldn’t keep my eyes from their hands, one strong and delicate, the other small and lean; the glitter of gold on her hand didn’t escape me either. I didn’t want to look at their faces, as if not looking up at them would stifle my curiosity.
My eyes couldn’t help but follow as they stood up to leave soon afterwards. In that seemingly short span of time there were no more reservations between them, as their hands were now tightly intertwined. I watched through the window as he walked her to her car. Their kiss was long and unyielding, as if that singular moment would keep them alive just long enough to last the day. They were curled up into one another — his hands in her hair, hers on his back — in the middle of the parking lot, which could understandably incite both intrigue and discomfort.
After that day, I always missed their meetings. By the time I’d arrive, her car — an ivory-colored Ford SUV — would already be parked, and there it would sit for hours at a time, until he returned her to small-town reality. At first, I could only titter with glee. I began to make up different scenarios in my head, some more salacious than others: sometimes they would go to dinner, romancing each other over a bottle of chardonnay and a nice salad and steak, while others would involve a trip straight to Fairfield Inn & Suites to romp around in cheap motel sheets, surrounded by the stench of old cigarette smoke and cleaner. Each time it ended with him bringing her back and leaving, parting with a kiss and nothing else.
I knew the woman had children; a bold, blue “W” magnet was stuck proudly on the back of her car, an insignia of one of the public schools in the area. I wondered if the man had children of his own, maybe a little girl who would have been just old enough to see that this, when found out, would have an irrevocable effect on their family. I wondered if she, at age eleven, would someday sit at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping on the muffled hysterics of her scorned mother whose voice would strain against rage, betrayal and tears as the father pleaded over the phone to give him another chance. I wondered if that girl would wait for a week until his return to their house only to find that she could not quite trust her father again, or any boys and men she would ever date for that matter, and then she, now as a capable twenty-something, would be frightened that the one man she loved more than air would find something in someone else that she didn’t have, seeing as the role of wronged woman was suspiciously genetic.
The last time I saw them, I had witnessed the approach of an older man’s sunset years, watching every evening as he rode up in his rust-colored Harley Davidson, that engine gruffer and more aggressive. He would sit at the corner of the patio, watching the golden sun between pages of his book as he puffed on his cigar. I had all but forgotten them, the parallels I had conjured fading from my memory as I turned my thoughts elsewhere, the experience all but forgotten. They walked past my table, their pace slower more lingering than other times as he led her to her car; they were more aware this time around, more cautious. They were ending.
He glanced at me with a slight smile. Forget you saw anything.
I smiled back. I’ve no clue what you’re talking about.