There’s a new girl that works in the coffee shop down the street from my house. I visit there nearly every day, tucking myself into the corner, coursework scattered across the table. And every single day she gets my order wrong.

“Caramel Macchiato right?” she says brightly. I eye the sunflower pin on her creamy white work apron.

I drink my coffee black.

“Yup, I’m surprised you remembered,” I say, smiling back at her, now familiar with this same old song and dance.

“Of course I remembered you!” she says with a smile. And that smile is the reason I never correct her.

I take my usual seat in the corner table, sipping on the saccharine treat that coats my mouth in sugar and makes my teeth ache. I try to get some work done but like always, end up drawing her face until it’s as natural to me as writing my name. She checks on me during her break and places a plate with a cookie on it, the pastry split in the middle.

“I didn’t order this,” I say

“I know, I accidentally broke it so we can’t sell it. I thought you might like it,” she says. She doesn’t have a nametag so I don’t know her name and I’ve never told her mine.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a large bite of the cookie. Too sweet. But she’s looking at me with those eyes that sparkle like fresh morning dew dripping off blades of grass. So I smile and tell her it’s delicious. “Broken” baked goods make their way to my table every day now.