I clutch my black tea, fingers wrapped around a mug that’s almost the size of my face, yearning for the caffeine to surge through my veins. The outside air frizzes my curls, the March wind howls, the threat of rain teases the afternoon. I tell people that I’m not a fan of March. Right now, a relationship in my life is under duress, just like piles of snow that trap us inside, that keep us stuck.

My eyes scan the pages of a novel — chick lit with dark undertones — but I’m fixated on an overt typo in the text above me. “Life’s to short to drink cheap coffee.”

I’m comfortable here because I’m reminded of a lounge in Brooklyn. It’s where I grew up, it’s a part of me, and this place happens to have an ambiance that’s warm and intimate. Snug.

One wall dons a baby piano, clarinet, flute, sax, and trombone. It dares you to stare, to be captivated by its flashiness, its allure. For me, it’s not about the demonstrative flair. The brick wall is Brooklyn, inviting me to stay for a while.

I arrived at this coffee shop with a sense of restlessness, and a desire to find something I can hold onto for a bit. A close friend wasn’t talking to me. I wondered if I was going to lose him. I just wanted to stand still. Emotional rollercoasters are tiring, and I was exhausted.

I avert my eyes away from the typo on the wall and make note of the guy next to me. Late twenties. Longish hair. Kind face. He looks my way. Words flow from our mouths, hesitant at first, but as they pick up speed and take flight, my tension eradicates. I temporarily forget about loss and its heartbreaking components, because here I am with this person I just met. Connecting.

I left the shop two hours later, hair flowing wildly in the March wind.