Bumble Fumble

Asahi reddens and clears his throat, “I’m sorry. I-um. I’m still waiting for someone.”“Oh, I know”, Noya says, “we’ve been watching you wait for a while now.” He gestures to the bar adjacent to the booth Asahi is seated at, where two bartenders are whispering to one another. The one with pink hair is gesturing with his hands, miming texting on a phone, face pulled in theatrical dismay. The taller one grabs the invisible phone out of the other waiter’s hands and mimes breaking it over his knee, stepping on it with his foot, and flipping it the middle finger. They quickly realize that Asahi can see them, and hurry to make themselves look busy.Ah. There it is. The mortifying ordeal of being perceived.