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The woman at the café kept checking her phone, then the door, then her phone again. I'd been watching her for twenty minutes from my corner table, the way her fingers worried the edge of her napkin into a small pile of paper snow.
She'd ordered a cortado. It sat untouched, a skin forming on the surface.
When the door opened, she looked up with such naked hope that I had to glance away. But it was just someone collecting a takeaway order. Her face reset itself, carefully blank.