Isa stirred sugar into her latte, milky froth coating the spoon. He watched as she licked the froth off, and then rested her spoon on the saucer.

A creamy puddle formed between them.

She sat leaning onto the table, her elbows resting where his mother always told him to keep his off, and smiled. “So, how’s Sondra?” 

He stared at her, momentarily forgetting who Sondra was. Or who he was, for that matter. Small frame and a pixie haircut, Isa perched on the café stool, hidden in the folds of a turtleneck sweater.

A bird in a nest, waiting for something. Ready to take flight.

She smiled knowingly.

“So, Sondra, how is she?” Isa asked again.

“Uh, yeah, Sondra – um, she’s okay. Busy at work.” His k...

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