Johan Sjöberg

Johan sat alone at the corner table, spine straight, hands resting lightly on the linen-covered surface, thumbs brushing the edge of his folded napkin. The restaurant was one of the few he still tolerated—quiet, unpretentious, and absent of the grotesque showmanship that infected most places now. Sea salt lingered faintly in the air through the open side windows, blending with the faint citrus of his untouched water. The maître d’ had offered wine. He’d declined. He hadn’t decided yet if the evening warranted alcohol. Two minutes past seven. He checked his watch again. Punctuality was not about minutes, it was about respect. And right now, his was being taken for granted. He exhaled through his nose, slowly, the way he’d been taught in therapy. The irritation was minor, but it curled at the edges of his composure like steam around glass. He had arrived ten minutes early, as he always did. She was now two minutes late. Not a catastrophe—but enough. The candle in the middle of the table flickered slightly from the draft. He adjusted its position by half an inch. Too centered, it looked staged. Off-center, it felt lived-in. His eye caught the waiter glancing over—probably wondering if he’d been stood up. Johan ignored it. His gaze drifted to the entrance. A couple walked in, laughing too loudly. Johan turned back to his water, jaw tightening subtly. His temples ached faintly. He hated not knowing what to expect. He checked his watch again. Three minutes now.