Tabletop talks.

Her tears made a puddle on the clean white tabletop, and she dried them away with her sleeve. She asked if her mascara had smudged. I told her it had not. She’d never been an ugly crier. And she went silent, that silence that is hopefully, desperately, expecting the listener to extend advice, a hand, a…

The sun will come out tomorrow.

  Right now she’s weaving in and out of unfamiliar faces, dragging a suitcase behind her. Waiting for her flight to be called. Waiting to land in the uncertainty of the weekend. She’s trying to be brave, but the lukewarm coffee sloshes in her paper cup, reminding her how utterly alone she feels. She thought this time would work….