We stand in line as we watch them make our drinks.
A little of this,
a splash of that,
into the machine,
where it twirls and spins itself into our order.

Like she used to twirl her hair
around her finger,
when she talked about something serious.
Or how she used to bite her nails
when she was nervous or stressed.

But she still twirls her dark brown hair,
She still bites her stubby nails,
only I'm not there to see it anymore.
Our lives never cross.

But every once in a while
we meet at the dark busy coffee shop,
we stand in line,
Then we sit at our table,
the one against the wall,
and we talk,
talk about the stories of our lives,
each more bizarre than the next.
and then her serious story.
as she begins to tell it
she reaches down and begins to twirl her hair.