I met her at the cafe where I liked to read the paper in the
morning. At the time she struck me as
nothing special—just another smiley college student waiting tables over the
summer. Only after she gave me the wrong
coffee three days in a row did I really pay any notice to her.
During her rambling apology—“I’m so sorry, I just can’t
remember if the white doily means vanilla or regular, I keep thinking white has
to be vanilla and then I think, no, it’s the opposite, and then I get myself
all mixed up”—I didn’t know whether to laugh or tell her to go away. In the end I did neither. Eventually I would come to wish I had done
the latter.
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