Mugs or Paper Cups?

A man ordered two cups of coffee.

"Would you like your coffee in paper cups or mugs?"

Nearby, a woman with soft wrinkles, in her large brown jacket, short blonde-dyed hair, and slim black slacks, looked subtly toward the man.
The man wore dress-like tennis shoes, a dress-like black work coat, and had gray hair.

"Mugs," he said.
The woman looked away from the man and took a couple of steps from the ordering counter to the pastry case.
But she turned back a moment later and said, "You know what, I want mine in a paper cup."
She gave little facial expression, her voice was quiet, but there was a light in her eyes, a slight desperation or else a sense of rebellion, sprightliness. Her overall-subdued physical quality made it hard to discern what, exactly her face displayed from within her.

The man mentioned the cup change to the barista, almost in a whisper or mumble, his body turned so his side faced her rather than his front.

The coffees were handed to the woman and to the man. 

The barista could not be seen, her body obscured by the counter, and shelves of coffee and tea accessories for sale a few feet away from the register.

With his exchange ended, the man walked away from the counter and chose a table decisively, establishing himself firmly in his seat, still clasping his mug handle.

The woman and the barista lingered a moment, sharing a few lighthearted words, a smile. It seemed they may have known each other prior to this interaction.

With their exchange complete, the woman then carried her paper-cupped coffee to the stand with cream and sugar, the windows stretching behind it. She made touches to customize, sweeten her drink to better suit her taste. As she stirred, she contemplatively watched outside, the coldness of winter swirling through everything. 

She then walked to the table that the man had chosen, and sat down with him as he sipped his black drink.

Her back was toward me was as I watched.

The man had also bought a scone or muffin and a newspaper. He slowly chewed, mulling over his food.

Sitting silently as the man ate, the woman brushed her light-colored hair from her face, and for a moment I glimpsed her profile. Then it was back to blonde, brown, pale and plain and light.

The man's eyes lay deep in his head with large gray brows furrowing over them. His hair was combed gently to the side, though, which appeared slightly feminine or self-conscious.

I stopped observing for a few minutes.
As I looked up to watch again, the man was smiling softly at a group of passing children who were on a tour of the bookstore and coffee shop.
I looked away in a low state of contemplation. It was inconclusive.

Again I resumed watching them, and now the woman--her back still toward me--was apparently speaking.

The man quietly listened, his eyes following hers, though sometimes dropping with a timidness or temperance of intensity, considerately. His hand drew to his mouth thoughtfully as she continued.

She gesticulated.

He glanced up to refocus on her, but this time his eye caught mine and he darkly peered out at me.

I made no expression. I looked down to the paper and continued to observe mentally.

I recalled that his eyes had not been completely in contact with mine. One was lazy.