Miranda considered herself an ordinary, straightforward woman. A twinge of embarrassment for her outburst reddened her cheeks. She didn’t want to give him the impression he was upsetting her. She came up with a plan: she would ignore him and find a table where she could study him. Sitting far enough away to evade his notice, yet close enough for a full view of him, she could, for the first time, take a good look at this character. He looked to be in his early seventies, and had a somber, melancholy look. His thick, feathered eyebrows shielded brown eyes that rendered them smaller than they might be on someone else’s face, especially behind those thick, black-rimmed glasses. His hair was uncombed, wiry, more white than brown. Neither fat nor thin, his body held a half century of what seemed like pretty-good care. He looked vibrant yet rounding at the edges. His drab clothes did not bring out his best physical qualities: browns and grays, ill-fitting jacket, loose pants. He needs a fashion assistant, Miranda concluded.
As she took her last sip of coffee, Miranda noticed Shadow get up to gather his things. To avoid detection, she looked down at her book, but could still see him walk out the door. Just then, the thought to follow him entered her head. With haste, Miranda gathered her own things and left the café.
Barista
Something’s up, José observed. Again she had rushed out the door as if she were late for an appointment. But without the drama of her last exit. José had not repeated his mistake; he left her latte’s milk foam a pristine, but boring, white. He’d give the other one, the reserved one, a special kitty face on her cappuccino.
