She sat down at the table in front of me. Dirty blonde hair, wrists and ankles full of what can only be assumed are meaningful bracelets that remind her of the time she has spent with him (whoever he is) and a look of total introversion. The kind of introversion that takes more than traditional ten percent of the human brain to accomplish. The music that flows through her auditory functions block out the various distractions allowing for complete immersion into the thoughts of the night spent in a random small town that was six hours drive north of the town they had known their entire lives. The laughter at the bar with “new friends” they had never met, the drinks that were bought by the overly appreciative locals and the passion that reignited a sex life that had become too bland and mundane for either one of them to acknowledge to the other. It all seemed destined to be pieced back together until a week removed from that night she came home to find only a note and half empty apartment. The note stated all the things both of them had been thinking the past few weeks prior to that impromptu trip to re-connect. His favorite place to get away was the various coffee spots that dotted the city, and now she reads that note each day before spending these spare moments having the smallest of coffees in random coffee spots hoping that he shows up. It’s been six months now without any luck. He probably has taken off to do all things they talked about doing together: the collective farming right outside Portland, the folk band that only plays house shows in Brooklyn or travelling through Indonesia in the fall. Her thoughts are on him doing all of this while she sits waiting at coffee shops wishing he would just call and give her the opportunity to make up for all those nights spent together, but alone.