I have seen young people, drunk with possibility, with opportunity, sit restless and anxious, nervously wandering for each other. I have seen the underarm sweat of people late for this, late for that to there for them or who or her, thumping out messages while stooped over cell phones. I have seen cold coffee collect in the bottom of mugs, bequeathed to vacant chairs or empty stares and swell sighs at the unwavering Exit.
I have felt the grief of waiting and heard dripping anticipation.
Waiting: for twelve years. Waiting: for twelve years, in the same little coffee place. Waiting: for twelve years, in the same little coffee place, serving the same drinks to different people, for twelve years.
Finding: And on a Wednesday evening between a connection flight a blue-haired girl with doe eyes asks for my name.
