What I Did with the Two Seconds

August twenty-sixth. She said it at the coffee cart, which is where we say most things, the small aluminum setup near the side door, between the parking lot and the start of a shift. We were both reaching for the same sleeve dispenser. She got there first and handed me one without looking up, and then she said, almost as an aside, that she'd read something recently that sounded like someone she knew.

I looked at my cup.

That was it. That was the whole decision. She didn't say more than that, and I didn't ask, and we walked in together the way we usually do. I don't know if she was talking about the blog. I don't know if she was talking about anything else. I did know, in the two seconds between hearing it and responding, that I had a choice, and I chose the cup. I chose to look at the cup and then ask if she'd tried the new roast and let the whole thing drift into the morning rush like it was nothing. Which it maybe was. Which it maybe wasn't.

still holding the cup from that morning, apparently

I've been thinking about it all day. Not with dread, exactly, more like the feeling after you almost trip on a perfectly flat surface. You're fine. Nothing happened. But your body keeps replaying it anyway. I don't know what she read, or when, or whether she was doing me the kindness of mentioning it sideways rather than straight-on. What I know is that I've been writing around her for two months and there was a version of today where she just said so plainly, and instead it was an aside, and a sleeve, and then we were already inside.

the part after you decide

For the record: the coffee was fine. Same roast as always. I drank the whole thing before the first table sat down.