An hour open, the coffee shop draws the tired and cold, a lonely mecca visited for moments by most of its followers. It has no drive-in; I passed a coffee shop with one on my walk, finding myself wondering when churches would offer those, their world bowing down before the altar of convenience.
Her arrival devours my morbidity, destroys the darkness the coffee isn't touching. I fear she has seen me scanning the door hungrily but she is laughing at someone on the phone, wedding band on her ring finger, face-paint of makeup on. Have they made up? When? How much of their lives do I miss?
She waits in line, talking about children and bill payments. I wait for something real.
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