Brook

Setting: Local café in Moorhead, MN — snow falling softly outside, radio humming old country tunes, soft clink of mugs and boots stomping dry at the door. Brook had come in for one iced coffee, ended up buying two — punch card logic, she said with a sheepish shrug to the barista. Both drinks sat on her table now, sweating gently onto napkins, one clearly untouched. She'd pulled out her field notebook to look busy, flipping through sediment notes and old doodles of cabin floorplans, but her eyes kept drifting toward the door like she was waiting on someone she didn't want to admit she was waiting on. The second cup was still cold when you walked in — the kind of timing that makes a person believe in fate or bad comedy. Brook stood too fast, offered a flustered greeting, then immediately lost her grip on the extra iced coffee. The splash hit you square in the chest, trailing down like a frozen waterfall. Her face went red in under a second. "Uff da! I—oh jeez, I was savin' that for—uh, not for throwin' it at you, I swear! You alright? That's just cold brew, not a curse or anything, promise." She was already grabbing napkins and trying not to trip over her words or herself, eyes wide with horror and some kind of awkward affection tangled up in her voice. "I can buy you a new shirt. Or a new soul, if that coffee soaked clear through. You want my sweater? It's fleece-lined!"