He wiped up the mess. Fetched some dry towels. Then instructed the worker at the register, “Get her a fresh cup.”
“I am fully capable of buying another,” I protested.
He dismissed my comment with his hand and dug into his front pocket regardless, tallying up his change until the barista informed him the drink was on the house.
That precise second was when I truly focused on his face.
He had aged, naturally. He appeared exhausted. His upper body had widened. He carried a distinct drag in his left step.
Yet, his gaze remained identical.
He locked eyes with me and froze for a fraction of a second.
“My apologies,” he murmured. “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
“Is that so?”
He furrowed his brow, examining my features, before shaking it off. “Probably mistaken. It’s been a tiring shift.”
I returned to the same spot the following day.
He took the seat opposite me without even requesting permission.
He was scrubbing the counters by the glass front. The moment he reached my spot, I spoke up, “Three decades past, you invited a teenager in a wheelchair to spin around at a school dance.”
His rag froze completely on the surface.
Very gradually, he raised his head.
