Cold Lattes and Warm Beginnings

The coffee shop smelled of cinnamon and rain. Sarah watched droplets race down the window, her untouched latte growing cold.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looked up. The stranger had kind eyes and an uncertain smile.

“It’s yours,” she said.

They talked until the barista swept around them, until the rain stopped and started again. He told her about his fear of heights and love of old bookstores. She confessed her tendency to collect seashells from every beach, even landlocked ones from gift shops.

“That’s cheating,” he laughed.

“That’s resourceful,” she corrected.

When they finally stood to leave, the sun had set. Outside, the sidewalk gleamed black and gold under streetlights.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, pulling out his phone.

“Me neither,” she lied. She’d been waiting her whole life to do this.

Three years later, their apartment overflowed with seashells and books. On their mantle sat a photo from that coffee shop, taken on their first anniversary when they’d returned to the same table.

She’d never finished that first latte. Some things were worth leaving cold.