“You can sit here,” I mutter. “But that doesn’t mean we need to talk.”

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” he says simultaneously.

I clear my throat. “Zoey Abot.”

Silence. We look at each other for a second, as though waiting to see if the other will hold out their hand for a shake. Neither of us does. I think about the way our hands touched earlier and decide it’s for the best. It’s been a freakish enough encounter already.

“My miles-high hair doesn’t just happen, you know,” he says amiably. “I have to have had a particularly atrocious night of sleep.”

“What happened last night, then?”

“Ouch. Guess I walked right into that one. Why do you keep a tally of who wins the table?”

“I wanted to see if there was a pattern. Days you didn’t show up, so I wouldn’t have to race here. I’m winning, by the way. Sixty-five percent of the time.”

“You must be proud.”

“Which begs the question, why do you keep coming here, when I’m so clearly dominating the competition?”

“A) I couldn’t care less who gets the table. The fact that you do says way more about you than it does about me.”

The other tables are comically bad. What a liar! He cares. He cares so hard. I can feel my blood pressure rise, just looking at his smug face while he talks.

“And B) Free Wi-Fi, usually no big crowds, and I don’t have to worry about gorging on junk food because they don’t sell any. Speaking of, I think we should order something.”

Strangely enough, I agree. It’ll fend off the vultures and keep us safe from Evelynn, who might otherwise kick us out into the storm to make way for customers who actually eat.

“I think you’re right. No kale muffins, though.”

“Pool our resources?” he suggests.

Two starving artists empty every pocket, purse, and wallet, placing our wrinkled dollar bills and a handful of coins onto the table. Miles systematically organizes them and announces that between us, we’ve got $14.87.

“There’s only one item on the menu we can afford,” I point out.

“Black bean and quinoa bowl it is,” he says, snapping the menu shut.

“I’ve never tried it.”

“Me neither. It looks pretty good, though.”

He orders it and returns the menu to the holder on the counter.

More silence. I should ignore him and get back to work. But what he said a moment ago gnaws at me. My writer-brain is curious, eager to collect a story that might be useful for a character one day. The odds that he’ll tell me something juicy are slim, but it’s worth a shot.

“You said it was one of the worst days of your life. Personally, or professionally?” I ask.

“Both. Times ten.”