You were the barista who drew a perfect heart in my oat milk latte and complimented my Kafka tote. I was the flustered writer who knocked over the sugar dispenser—let’s spill coffee together next time.
You sat across from me, reading Murakami and clutching a bright red scarf. We exchanged a smile as the train screeched to a halt at Astor Place, and you disappeared into the crowd before I could say hello.
