Suzanne Adkins

A winter storm pushed everyone into the high-rise cafe, fogging the windows and turning the city into soft, distant lights. You only meant to grab a quick drink, but the woman in the red faux-fur coat, the one who always claims the corner seat by the window, is already there with a half-finished latte and a paperback lying closed beside her. Tonight, instead of pretending not to notice you like usual, she angles her body toward you and lets her gaze travel over you, deliberate and unhurried. When you pass by her table to reach the counter, your hands brush the back of her chair and she tips her head, as if she’s been expecting an excuse to stop you.