I'd just been passed over for a promotion I'd been quietly expecting.
My best friend was out of town.
My mother had called twice, and I hadn't answered because I knew she'd somehow turn "I didn't get promoted" into "Maybe this means you should rethink your entire life."
So I'd gone to the café.
I'd ordered coffee.
Then I'd sat there long enough for it to go cold.
I was staring out the window when a man stopped beside my table.
"Is this taken?"
I looked at the empty chair. "No."
"Thanks."
He sat down with a coffee and a book he never actually opened.
His name was Adrian.
That was all I knew at first.
Then somehow we started talking.
I don't even remember who spoke first.
Maybe he asked about the pastry I hadn't touched.
Maybe I made fun of his book.
What I remember is looking at the clock later and realizing almost three hours had passed.
We talked about ridiculous things.
He hated olives.
I thought pigeons were disgusting.
He thought they were "undervalued city wildlife."
He had a younger sister named Sophie.
I'd once pretended to be sick for an entire semester to avoid middle school swim class.
He told me he'd broken his arm at 12 trying to rescue someone else's kite from a tree.
None of it mattered.
Which was probably why it mattered so much.
The conversation felt easy.
When the café started closing, we walked outside.
That's when normal people would exchange numbers.
Unfortunately, neither of our phones had any battery left.
Mine had died before lunch.
His was apparently somewhere in his bag at one percent.
I said, "Well, this is terrible planning."
He laughed, "Maybe we don't exchange numbers."
