When we get settled on the couch he says, “It sucks to be an undergrad. There’s so much busywork.” And it makes me feel far away from both of them. I barely even did my homework in high school.

The next day, when we’re almost through the morning rush, Carly takes a break and has coffee with two guys and a girl at a table in the corner. The girl has a lip ring. One of the guys has bleached white hair with dark roots and skin so pale you can almost see through it. The other one looks like James Dean with black lipstick. They talk in hushed tones that grow into bursts of laughter, then drop to whispers. I can’t tell what they’re talking about. By the time I finish with one customer, they’re being quiet again. When they’re loud, I’m taking another order.

After they finish their coffee, they go out for a smoke. Right by the front door, where Carly always tells Bodie he’s not allowed to smoke. At first she’s just taking drags off James Dean’s cigarette, but then the girl with the lip ring offers Carly her own and when James Dean finishes his, he steals Carly’s for a few puffs. I wonder if he gets black lipstick all over his cigarettes. I’m not close enough to see.

The pale guy is telling a story and suddenly slaps his palms to his chest and his whole body shakes. He looks like he’s exploding and they all laugh so hard they have to lean on each other to catch their breath.

The four of them seem like they belong together. Like they’re an advertisement for combat boots or hair gel. I wonder if they found each other because they look like that, or if after they met, James Dean borrowed black lipstick from Carly, Lip Ring convinced Pale Guy he needed peroxide, and who they are now isn’t who they would be if they’d never crossed paths.

When her friends finally leave, Carly comes back in and we rotate the stock of flavored coffee on the shelves. I kneel on the counter and she hands me new bags from the cabinet below.

She isn’t chatty like she was with her friends. She looks weary, as if she’d rather be wherever they were headed next.

“How much vanilla is left?” she asks.

“Two bags,” I say, and I want to crack a joke, but I can’t think of anything particularly funny about vanilla. She hands me two bags to tuck behind the old ones.

“How much cherry?”

“Why would anyone want cherry coffee?”

“It’s not bad,” she says.

“Oh. Three bags,” I say. “Did that crazy girl come back today?”

“Which one?”

“Nipple ring?”