A university couple sat on recycled kitchen chairs at Martin’s Coffee House—once an old machine shop—studying Russian literature. Their heads bowed toward one another’s cups.
He’d be graduating soon, just weeks, and she hadn’t yet told him: every minute she spent without him drained her soul dry like Mohave sand.
How could she say it? He was older. Brilliant. His girlfriend was stunning.
The tattooed barista steamed organic milk. She bit her lip. Across the table her friend—were they just friends?—looked up from his book and smiled.
Feeling courageous, she reached out for the back of his hand. She opened her mouth to speak.
The flyers on the wall fluttered when the door opened. One of his friends—out of breath—said he was late for something. He’d have to go.
Alone, she remembered his brown eyes.
“Dear, Charlie,” she wrote. And the barista steamed on.
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