There she is, in the coffee shop window. She stares out—not at you, but toward you, not really looking at anything. Maybe at the odd snowflake drifting down from the sky.
She has all the appearance of waiting.
For someone, maybe. Her Valentine. The jerk who stood her up. A love she has yet to know.
Maybe. Maybe, you’ve been waiting for her, too.
So you go inside. She looks up. Smiles. Stands, ties on her apron, picks up her pad and pencil and asks to take your order.
She was just waiting for her break to end.