She was fighting a nap, again, and I was late so I ran out the door to her crying in my ears.
He’d insisted on meeting in person, though there was no reason a phone call could not have sufficed, and I was frustrated, squeezing a meeting in before piano lessons later that afternoon.
I knew he’d be late, too. In my hurrying I knew it was pointless.
But when I’d ordered my latte and hung my coat over the back of the chair and sat there in the window, I started to notice again. And I realized how long it had been.
Outside it was cold but the sun peeked out around clouds and people walked by on the brick sidewalks in ones and twos. A woman pushed a stroller by, a blanket hung over the hood, the way my toddler never allows.
Inside the art was new from the last time I was there, in the summer, but the barista was the same. He looks better in the winter, the knit hats and flannel fitting with his beard and mustache, and I wanted to ask him if he still bikes everywhere when the weather is bad.
Two artists were moving materials in the back and the barista’s girlfriend lingered at the counter and someone tried to sell webhosting to the curator who always wears the long dresses that I associate with the ’80s.
And I was sorry when he walked in the door, ordered an iced Americano (in January?!) and sat across from me.
I wished he’d been more than 5 minutes late.