Minutia in Ramblings

I keep dreaming of conversations between Cupid and Death. Actually, they are conversations between assistants to assistants to assistants of Cupid and Death. Old friends from school they meet monthly at out of the way restaurants around the world, though lately their travels have kept them in the Midwest. They sit around in suits that are too warm for the local weather, drinking coffee and watching the people walk around them.
Frank, who has been working for Cupid for a number of years, joining up right out of school, has exponentially increased his waistline since starting the job. He chain smokes a Turkish brand of tobacco, because he believes it makes him appear more dashing than he really feels. His hair, once a flowing mane of dirty blond, has been cropped short to his head (a directive from corporate to help streamline the "look" Cupid is striving for; professional and successful). He often starts in his chair, paranoid his superiors are watching his every move, critical of the matches he has brought together. He's also begun an unhealthy habit of humming teenage pop songs.
Keith sits across from him, languid in his behavior, dashing in his looks. His form has also filled out since school, but more toned, the only bulk that is unchecked in his biceps, where he lifts weights for hours at a time, with only unbearable pain in his shoulders forcing him to stop. Keith took some time off after school to find himself, crossing the country on a motorcycle he'd found and bought for relative change. Having discovered he was never really lost, just without a purpose of his own, he joined Death's organization and has been slowly working his way up the ranks.
They both sit in uncomfortable iron chairs, hungrily searching the faces of the passerby's, the sun never touching their skin, the clouds never casting shadows across their eyes.