Emily pocketed her phone and pushed through the door of the coffee shop. The interior was chrome and brick and barn board, the walls hung with vintage coffee posters that would have been right at home in Walter Newell’s collection, had they been originals. The tables were empty and a single customer stood at the front register. The top shelf of the glass cabinet that usually held the cinnamon-sugar cider donuts was empty. Of course there wouldn’t be any left at this time of day, and if there had been, they’d have turned hard as hockey pucks.

Emily was approaching the counter when the man already there wheeled around and crashed into her. His coffee splashed all over. “I’m so sorry,” Emily said, even though it wasn’t her fault. “I didn’t realize—”

“Christ Almighty,” said the man. He wore a baseball cap and aviator glasses with yellow lenses, and he had a well-tended beard and mustache. He looked down at his coffee-stained yellow polo shirt and now-lidless venti, then bent still farther to see the coffee (he took it black, Emily noticed) pooling in the toe well of his butterscotch leather loafers.

Under his breath, he spat, “Stupid cow.”

Emily recoiled. But before she could come up with an equally hateful epithet, he’d brushed past her. She watched him stride out the door and walk past her car. Then, making eye contact with her through the front window of the coffee shop, he overhanded his coffee cup against the back of her car.

Prick. Asshole. Too late, apt retorts came to her.

The barista, a young woman with a rich mocha complexion and long dark hair that was parted down the middle, was already at Emily’s side with a roll of paper towels. It was only then that Emily realized coffee had splattered all over her shirt and pants as well. As she patted her arms dry, she heard the screech of tires from outside. She looked out the window. The man and his car were gone.

“Charming fellow,” Emily said. She handed the barista the coffee-soaked paper towels. “Thank you.”

“You are sure you are not hurt?” The barista—on closer inspection she was not all that young—gave Emily a sympathetic look. She wore oversized gold hoop earrings and pronounced “sure” eh-sure, adding a syllable, the way Emily’s Spanish-speaking students often had. Her name badge read ANA.

“I hope he’s not one of your regular customers,” Emily said.

Ana dropped a fresh wad of paper towels on the floor and bent to spread them around to sop up the spill. “I never seen him before.” She wore a bracelet of colored macaroni strung together. A mom.

“Needs to seriously chill out,” Emily said.

“You think?” Ana laughed. She scooped up the towels and stood. “So, what can I get you?”