Meet Daniel and ..?
***
The line stretched, coiled, slow and heavy with the weight of early November. A dull sort of sun hung outside, glinting through the frosted windows and casting soft-edged shadows on the tile floor. I stood, balancing the strap of my bag on my shoulder, letting the warmth and the faint cinnamon scent of the place seep into me. I told myself I came for the coffee. That was a lie. I didn’t even like coffee.
I came because the place felt like a between-world, the hum of people who knew exactly what they wanted, soft clicks, the sputter of steaming milk, the shuffling of feet—students all lost in their own small orbits. There was a lulling rhythm to it and I liked the way it let me dissolve. I could stand there and not belong to anything, not even to myself.
The door opened. The bell above it gave its usual apologetic chime. I glanced up out of habit, expecting nothing, and then there she was.
She wasn’t beautiful. Not at first. Not in the way you notice someone and immediately start arranging your face for them, softening the edges. Her hair was messy, in the artful kind of way that suggested she had somewhere more important to be. She was wearing a coat that looked like it had been made for someone else, someone taller, broader. I expected her hands to be bare, but they were adorned with ornate rings indicative of adventures to places I would’ve never heard of:
Left hand:
Pinky - a thin gold band, crooked, its surface slightly tarnished.
Middle finger – a chunky gold ring, etched with a swirling pattern, the kind you’d find in a tiny market on some faraway country.
Right hand:
Index finger – A simple, dark green stone set in bronze on her index finger, the gem slightly uneven, catching the light like a mossy pool.
Thumb - A plain, hammered brass ring, wide and weathered, with faint scratches.
None of the rings matched, and yet they all seemed to belong to her. Her fingers curved around a deep brown leather notebook with frayed edges and a spine cracked from being opened one too many times.
And her face. It wasn’t lovely in the way faces usually are, with symmetry or softness or those easy photogenic features. Her face had sharpness to it, an unguarded openness, as if no one had ever told her to smooth herself out. Her cheekbones caught the light as she turned toward the menu board. As she sighed, I saw her two front teeth peek out from behind her full yet sharp lips. I wondered how they even fit in her mouth comfortably. They were larger than the rest and gave her an expression that felt both candid yet mischievous.
I don’t know why I couldn’t look away. Maybe it was because she didn’t seem like she was trying to be here, in this line, this morning, in this particular shade of November. She looked like she belonged somewhere else entirely— where?. She looked like she’d slipped into this moment by accident and might slip out again before anyone noticed.
And then she caught me looking.
It wasn’t much. Her eyes flicked toward mine, two seconds, maybe less and then back to her notebook. It was nothing, and yet, I felt the battery in my back click into place, sending a sharp charge through me. I could feel myself doing the stupid thing—shifting and clearing my throat. I wasn’t in control of the casual yet sudden glance at my watch like I had someplace to be. But my feet stayed planted, rooted to the linoleum.
The line crawled forward and then somehow; she was behind me. I could feel her there, not looking, her attention tethered to her own private gravity. And before I could stop myself, I stepped aside.
“You can go ahead,” I said. My voice sounded too careful in the way you speak to someone who’s not expecting to be spoken to.
She hesitated before turning toward me. Her eyes, now that I could see them properly, were darker than I’d imagined. They didn’t widen or soften or sparkle; they narrowed in an almond shape, accentuated by a natural faint lift at the corners.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice low, measured. “I don’t want to cut.”
“Not cutting,” I replied, trying for casual but landing somewhere nearer to overeager. “Call it… efficiency. You’ll save the whole line two minutes.”
Her full lips tugged at the corners, just enough to let me know she was humouring me. “Are you sure?”
“Completely,” I said, though I wasn’t. “Go ahead.”
After another moment of deliberation, she stepped in front of me, murmuring a thank you in a low and steady voice. Although it felt like there was a trace of something unplaceable—was it shyness? Or simply indifference?
She stepped past me, tentative, like she was half-expecting me to change my mind. Her hair caught the light as she moved and there was a faint smell of gingerbread clinging to her coat mixed with cold air and something faintly herbal from her hair. She ordered a latte (no sugar) in a steady and precise voice. I watched her hands as she handed over her card, long fingers, adorned but with nails bitten down to the quick.
I wanted to ask her name. It was right there in this need to make the moment mean something. Instead, I waited until she turned back toward the counter to wait for her drink and said, “I’m Daniel.”
She blinked in a strangely startled way as if she’d forgotten I existed. “Hi, Daniel.” Her lips curved slightly, politely. The expression faded just as quickly. She didn’t offer her name. Instead, she nodded, a quiet acknowledgment, and let the silence stretch between us like a closing oak door.
I suddenly couldn’t shake the urge to fill the silence, though I wasn’t sure why. “I, uh, don’t usually drink coffee. Just… thought I’d try something new today.”
Her eyes flicked to me again, her expression unreadable. “That’s… brave,” she said, and the way she said it—half amused, half sincere.
I wanted so desperately to hear her speak again.
Her latte came, she took it and left before I could think of what else to say.
I stood there, feeling oddly deflated yet inexplicably buoyed. It wasn’t much. It was honestly barely a conversation—but there was something about her that lodged itself in my mind.
I stood there empty-handed watching her disappear into the November light. Told myself it was nothing. A few words exchanged in line at a coffee shop. A fleeting impression. A leaf skimming the surface of a pond. It didn’t matter.
But I already knew I’d spend the rest of the day replaying the way she’d said my name.