The notoriously slow-moving line was long, and I considered going to Peet’s Coffee across the street instead, but I wanted breakfast, and Peet’s didn’t serve good breakfast, so I stood there and read about alpacas while I waited. Besides, there was an old Pearl Jam song playing over the speakers in Equator. Pearl Jam had been Sam’s favorite band at the time of his death, and since it was a Sam-themed day, that felt like a sign for me to stay.

I didn’t see her until I was about to place my order. She was sitting on the bench all the way to the right, against the wall of windows, drawing in a small sketchbook. A coffee cup sat beside her pencil case on the tiny round table in front of her. She was wearing flared jeans that looked like they were from the 1970s, a rainbow-striped sweater, and sandals that she’d kicked off onto the floor. Her legs were crisscrossed underneath her.

My hand shook as I handed my thermos to the girl in the gothy purple lipstick behind the counter. I vaguely heard the girl ask me if I wanted the single origin or the Equator blend, and I’m pretty sure I said single origin. I wasn’t completely out of my head though, because I had intended to grab one of the prepackaged cups of yogurt for breakfast, but I asked for an egg sandwich instead; because that would be made to order, it would take a while, and I’d have to stand directly in front of October’s table to wait for it.

I dropped my change into the tip jar, approached the table, and stood there hoping October would feel my presence and look up, but she was too engrossed in what she was doing. From upside down it looked like she was drawing a leopard, but it also could have been a skyscraper.

“Hey,” I said.

Her head rose quickly, her eyes wide, her look askance. I watched her closely, to catalog any emotions she might choose to reveal, but she went Switzerland on me again.

“Hey yourself.”

My throat felt dry and chalky. I took a sip from my thermos and the coffee in it was so hot it scalded my mouth.

Silence swirled like smoke in the space between us, and I knew it was up to me to diffuse it.

“How are things?” I said stupidly.

She had been biting on the end of her pencil, but she took it out of her mouth and twirled it around in her fingers like a little baton. “Things are good.”

I cocked my head to the side, to get a better look at what she was drawing. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing.” She shut the sketchbook and set the pencil on top of it. “I’m literally not working on anything.”

“It looks like you’re drawing.”