The way perspectives can shift a scene:
What actually happened: The man hunched over the table, shadowing the sparkling silver and the crystal goblets. He moved his bent, misshapen fingers to pry open the box. The angel across from him gasped, tears shining behind her bifocals. His lips formed the age-old question at the same moment as her whispered "yes." With intense concentration, he worked the ring past the wrinkled skin, over the arthritic joints to where finger joined hand. His eyes met her shining ones and they shared a secret smile.
The CIA spy sitting two tables over: The old geezer glanced suspiciously around him. With surreptitious movements, he slid a black box across the table to the operative disguised as an elderly woman. The man's lips moved as he recited the memorized code to crack the box. The woman repeated the code. They shook hands, mutual respect for each other's professions evident in their secret smiles.
The waitress: The old man hunched over the table, his frayed cuffs and out-of-date necktie in sharp contrast with the expensive dinnerware. His hand slid over the table to his dinner companion, the receipt concealed beneath his fingers. Of all the nerve, asking his dinner date to pay for their meal. If they couldn't afford this place, they should have eaten at McDonald's. The woman's eyes formed tears of disgust behind her glasses. Quite classy actually, that she agreed to take the receipt. Her hand reached out to accept his "gift." They smiled at each other, the woman polite to the end. I hope that's her last date with Mr. Cheapskate.
The mother who'd just gotten word that her son was killed while on a tour of duty: The old man hunched over the table, pity written across his weathered face. He slid the box containing her grandson's dog-tag across the table to her. The woman gasped, tears springing to her eyes. He whispered the boy's last words to her, then took her hand to comfort her. The woman blinked back the tears and gave the man a tremulous smile, bravely facing the lonely years ahead.
The fantasy author: The man hunched over the table, the masses of Aron-cluttered tables fading from his view. All that mattered was the Aron-Queen in front of him. If he could just convince her that he needed her armies, his people might just survive. He slid the talisman towards her, casually. If he hurried, she'd interpret his actions as too aggressive. Too slow and she'd grow bored. She gasped and tears flooded her eyes. "The Aron Stone," she whispered. He nodded. "My spies returned with it from the Nether-regions," he said. He lifted it from the box and placed it gently in her hands, folding her fingers over it and holding it there. Their eyes met. The smile she gave him was full of promise.
So much fun! I could go on, but I think I'll stop there. :)