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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