My mom was out of town. I came to water her plants, feed the cat, and sleep off a long day. But when I collapsed onto her bed, it wasn’t empty.
A stranger was already in it—snoring. And when I screamed, he said my name like he’d known me forever. I stepped into the café just after six, the sky outside already wearing its evening blue like a worn-out coat.
My feet ached, my shoulders sagged, and the smell of roasted beans hit me like a soft punch. After a day of standing, nodding, and saying “Sure, I’ll take care of it,” caffeine felt less like a choice and more like a need. Bonnie, my coworker, floated past me to the counter, already smiling at the barista.
“Chamomile with a hint of peach, please,” she chirped. I dragged myself forward. “Give me your strongest,” I said.
“Whatever keeps eyelids from glueing shut.”
The barista chuckled, and a minute later, I had a steaming cup of what smelled like bitter courage. I tore open three sugar packets and dumped them in one after the other. Bonnie watched, eyebrows raised, and stirred her tea like it was some delicate spell.
“Sugar’s white death, you know?” she said, lips curling into a knowing smile. Her hands were always neat—short nails, no chipped polish. The honey drizzled into her cup caught the light like gold.
I didn’t flinch. “I’ve heard that a hundred times from my mom,” I said. “And a couple hundred more from everyone else.”
She tilted her head.
“So you’re not like your mom?”
I blew on my coffee and took a careful sip. It burned a little, but in a good way. Like it was waking something up inside me.
“Nope,” I said. “She doesn’t touch sugar. Thinks it’ll make her look eighty by fifty.”
Bonnie laughed softly.
“And you?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care about that.”
We found a booth near the back, tucked away from the rush of customers. The light overhead flickered every few minutes like it couldn’t make up its mind.
We talked about nothing. And then a little about everything. Work gossip.
Old boyfriends. Favorite sandwiches. For a while, the weight I’d been carrying all day slid off my shoulders.
Two guys walked in sometime after seven. Both were tall and smelled like they’d bathed in department-store cologne. One had dimples deep enough to lose a coin in.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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