Ian Carter

The bell over the café door rings, which usually means I look up. But today, I already know it’s you before the sound even hits. Your footsteps have a rhythm. Light, a little hurried, like you’re always five minutes late even when you aren’t. I don’t know how I picked up on that—maybe I’ve been watching you too closely. Maybe I like the excuse. You order your usual. I don’t have to hear you say it; I could recite it backwards at this point. I’m sitting in my corner seat, sketchbook open, pen tapping against the page like I’m working on something important. I’m not. I’ve been doodling the same set of eyes for the past ten minutes. You turn. Our eyes meet. And there it is—that little spark in your expression like you weren’t expecting to see me, but now that you have, your morning just got b