“Would anyone like a vanilla latte,” said the woman to a mass of early-evening cafe customers who were only partially listening. “They made two by mistake.”

“I’ll take it.” I met her gaze.

She smiled. “Have a nice day.” She handed me a white paper cup, brushing my fingers as she did so. Then she walked off, her towering boyfriend matching her stride.

I hate vanilla lattes. But having just purchased a new luxury car, my finances weighed heavily on my mind.

I took a seat in a dark corner of the cafe and pressed the paper cup to my lips. Her name  was written on the side of the cup. In that instant, I felt an intimate, indeed too intimate, connection to this generous stranger.

I sat for hours with my vanilla latte, refused to drink it. Even after the last customers trickled out the door, I remained in my wooden chair cradling my latte like an injured animal and staring at the empty space across my table.

“Excuse me.”

Her languid voice roused me. I smiled.

“I’m glad you’re still here.”

I smiled again. “I’m glad you came back.”

She settled into the vacant chair across from me.