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She checked her phone. No messages. Three hours ago, she’d sent: “Can we talk? I’m at the usual spot.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
The door to the café opened. A gust of wet wind slapped the back of her neck. She didn’t turn around. She already knew it wasn’t him. His footsteps were heavier. These were soft, hesitant—someone looking for an outlet or a bathroom. candid-v3
The girl looked at the cup, then at Lena. She wiped her face with her sleeve—hard, like she was angry at her own tears. She checked her phone
Outside, a bus hissed to a stop. Nobody got on. Nobody got off. candid-v3
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