While my mom was away, I agreed to take care of her plants, feed her cat, and crash there after a long day. But when I finally collapsed onto her bed, it wasn’t empty. A stranger was lying there, fast asleep and snoring. I screamed. He didn’t flinch—just said my name like he’d known me forever.
I walked into the café a little after six. The evening sky outside had already faded into a dull blue, like an old, overused coat.
My feet throbbed, my back was heavy with exhaustion, and the scent of fresh coffee smacked me softly in the face.
After a whole day of smiling, nodding, and saying “Sure, I’ve got it,” I didn’t just want caffeine—I needed it like air.
Bonnie, my coworker, floated ahead to the counter, grinning at the barista. “Chamomile, with a hint of peach,” she said sweetly.
I trudged forward. “Whatever’s the strongest. I need something to keep my eyes from sealing shut.”
The barista laughed, and moments later handed me a steaming cup that smelled like bitter bravery.
I ripped open three sugar packets and dumped them in, one after the other.
Bonnie raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything—just stirred her tea slowly, like she was crafting a potion.
“Sugar’s poison, you know?” she said eventually, her smile sly and knowing.
Her hands were always neat—short nails, no chipped polish. The honey she drizzled into her tea gleamed under the light. I didn’t even blink.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that speech plenty—from my mom, and basically everyone else.”
She tilted her head at me. “So, not a fan of your mom’s ways?”
I blew gently across the top of my coffee and took a slow sip. It stung, but in a good, wake-you-up kind of way.
“Not really,” I said.
“She avoids sugar like it’s radioactive. Thinks it’ll age her overnight.”
Bonnie laughed softly. “And you?”
I shrugged. “I’m not worried about that kind of thing.”
We slid into a booth near the back, far from the noisy crowd. The light above us flickered now and then, undecided.
We chatted about nothing. Then slowly, about everything. Office drama. Exes. Sandwiches we’d die for. And with each laugh, the stress of the day started to lift.
Around seven, two guys walked in—tall, cologne-heavy, like they’d swum through a perfume aisle.
One had dimples so deep they looked like coin slots. They grabbed the table next to us.
“Hey,” Dimple Guy said. “You two from around here?”
Bonnie lit up like someone flipped a switch. “Born and raised in Ames,” she said, twirling her spoon like it was part of a flirt routine.
I kept my gaze buried in my coffee, like it might offer me an escape plan.
They flirted. Bonnie leaned in, laughed, played along. And I sat still, trying not to disappear.