We met on the bus, side-by-side, read­ing books that both won Nobel Prizes.

I was sup­posed to meet you here three years ago, and they’re out of apple cider. The cran­berry cider is tart, but only too much when you sip it so. There’s a sub­tly dis­tinct taste to it, barely enough to stop me from won­der­ing if I just paid $2.45 for warm cran­berry juice. I didn’t even want this drink; I just wanted to sit down and write.

I never would have come here if you hadn’t sug­gested it. There are too many peo­ple. Too many going for the freshly-grounded, shade-grown, fair trade bull­shit that’s been mar­keted to the hip­sters who think they’re doing the world a favour by patron­iz­ing the right kind of places. Pretentious peo­ple who come here to read, then put their head­phones on because it’s too noisy.

I don’t fit in. That’s prob­a­bly a good thing.

I was sup­posed to meet you here three years ago, but your boyfriend got jeal­ous and wouldn’t let you come.

We met on the bus, and I haven’t seen you since.