The woman was probably, oh, forty-ish. Her face was just lined enough to show that she'd been through some years, but not enough to make her look like all of her youthful days were behind her just yet. She sat at the cafe table, an unopened book and two coffee cups in front of her. She drank from one; the other was empty. She took an uninterested sip as she looked off, toward the front door of the place; then she put down the cup and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair. Her bangs were mostly held back by the sunglasses she had perched atop her head, but a few strands hung down, low and loose over her eyes; these she occasionally pushed aside but she mostly didn't seem to care. And so she kept looking around, looking down, looking at her book, but mostly looking toward the cafe door. She would stir her coffee, even though she hadn't put anything in it. Then she would look again toward the door.
On this went, until she finished her coffee. Then she waited five more minutes before she got up, put on her coat, and filled the empty cup that she had bought for her unmet companion before she left, book in hand and sunglasses lowered back over eyes that were filling with tears.
(Inspired by, and embellished from, a woman I saw today.)