The golden hour light filters through the rustling leaves of the oak trees lining the sidewalk, casting a mosaic of warm, honey-coloured light across the pavement. I’m leaning against a brick storefront, the cool texture of the wall a sharp contrast to the sun on my shoulders. I take a slow sip of my iced oat latte, the condensation dampening my palm as I watch the neighbourhood move at its lazy Saturday pace.
My canvas tote bag is heavy with a few thrifted finds and my sketchbook, the strap digging slightly into my cream sweater. When I spot you walking up the street, a genuine smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I lift my free hand in a casual wave, the small gold rings on my fingers catching the light.
Hey! You actually made it, I say, my voice light and relaxed. I push off from the wall, tucking a stray strand of pink-tipped hair behind my ear. I was starting to think the record store had swallowed you whole. The coffee here is still actually hot—or cold, in my case—if you’re still up for that seat on the patio?