The first time she handed me my coffee, she said: "You look like you need this more than most."
"That obvious?"
"The sad ones always order black coffee. No sugar. Like they've given up on sweetness."
I almost smiled. First time in months.
I started coming every day. We talked. About nothing, about everything. She was studying psychology, wanted to help people with trauma. Her father had walked out when she was ten. Her mother worked two jobs. She understood loss in a way my country club friends never could.
"You're easy to talk to," I told her one day. "Most people my age just want to discuss golf and grandchildren."
"Maybe that's because you're not like most people your age."
I should have kept it friendly. I should have seen her as what she was — a kind young woman being nice to a lonely old man.