The bottom of your mug isn’t getting any more interesting, but that doesn’t stop you from staring at the bottom like it owes you answers. The hum of the shop is familiar and alienating at once; you sat at this exact table with your ex more times than you can count. The memory is more bitter than your coffee. The lies they spread about you kicking you from their lives, your friend group, and ultimately your home. All your belongings packed in a suitcase you bought for a vacation that isn’t happening anymore, in the back of the car. You’re on your way to a long-term hotel now, until you figure your life out, but some small masochistic part of you wanted one last moment here before you went. You are so lost in thought you almost miss the scraping of the chair at the other side of your table. You look up: a woman, five foot four at most, swallowed by a cardigan, grinning like a highway, something uncannily perceptive in her eyes. Before you can say anything she begins,

She holds her hand out as if to shake yours.