He said 7:00 pm. She waits at the wrought iron table. Her chapped elbows reside on the chilled metal. It’s uneven legs cause her Americano to dance in its porcelain. Amber rust boroughs in her ivory skin. The dim lighting distorts the characters that fill the cafe on Houston Street. He saunders through the door at 7:17. Flashing his Hollywood smile as heads zip in his direction. The chiffon speckles of snow juxtapose atop his cedar locks. He ushers the chair out across from hers, producing a screeching tone. 

“I know, I know I’m late.” 

“It's f-”

“Can I get a caramel latte please?” he asks the blonde waitress. 

“Coming right up, sir.”

“You hate sugar,” she snears. 

“I’m trying something new. You should try it sometime.”

“Is that a new shirt too?”

“Yeah. A friend got it for me.”

“Here’s your latte,” the blonde waitress pronounces.  

“You’re a lifesaver,” he exclaims. 

His eyes follow her exiting the immediate area for about 3.5 seconds.   

“So, how’s my girl been?”

“I’m fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Yes. Just fine.”

“How’s that writing piece coming along? You said it was for Professor Carter, right?”

“I finished that one, two weeks ago.”

Half of the watered down mocha liquid remains in her chipped mug.

“The snow looks like your polyester blanket,” she mentions while peering out the fogged glass.

“I hate that blanket. It’s so old now,” he explains with a sour puzzle.

“You loved it.”

“Loved.”

“So, how was Boston?” she asks.

“Boring. Didn’t really do much.”

“Didn’t do much? You were there for a week.”

“What are you doing Friday?” He questions. 

“I have the editor’s party.”

“Oh that's right.”

“You forgot.”

“Come on, you know I have a lot going on.”

“You said you were coming with me.”

“I’ll try to make it.”

“You’ll try?”

“Yes, I’ll try. What, is that not good enough for you?”

“You know this is really important to me. I've been telling you about it for weeks.”

“You’re so cute when you’re mad.”

“See, this is our problem. You never take me seriously.”

“I take you seriously.”

“No you don’t.”

“Is this about the blanket? Because you got it for me?”

“Oh my god! This isn’t about the stupid blanket,” she affirms. 

“It’s old. I should’ve thrown it out months ago.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“You should know I’m going back to Boston next week,” he announces. 

“Maybe you can get yourself a new blanket while you’re at it.”

“Maybe I will.”

His phone buzzes against the coal iron.

“Aren't you going to get that?”

“No. I’m with you.”

“How considerate.”

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay.”

“So why is it that you’re going to Boston again?”

“Uh, same reason. Work stuff,” he mutters. 

“Mhm. When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a week. Maybe longer.”

“Is this going to become your new thing?”

“Is what going to become my new thing?”

“Running away to- You know what? Nevermind.”

“Alright then. Maybe we should call it a night,” he declares. 

“Maybe we should.”

He strikes his hand on the table, causing the forgotten remnants of the Americano to spill onto her dove oversized blouse. Leaving behind an irreparable stain. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he pleads. 

“I'm sure you are.”

“How can I make it up to you?”

“Don’t go to Boston.”

“Is that really what you want?”

“No, what I really want is-“

“I hate to interrupt but, we’re closing in 3 minutes. So I just wanted to give you the heads up,” the blonde waitress expresses. 

“Thank you. We were just leaving actually,” she asserts while wrapping herself in the obsidian trench that previously hung on the worn chair. 

“I'm going to Boston and I’m throwing out the blanket.”

“Okay. Have fun.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Tell her I say, ‘Hello.’”