Cracked Veneer

She came to the coffee shop every day, her head buried in her handheld, grimacing like paint cracking, a pentimento of angst behind her veneer.

“What can I get you, miss?”

Never making eye contact, she’d mutter, “flat white.”

Usually I complied, without comment, but this time I said, “sure ‘nough, Stacy.”

We had known each other, once, a dogeared book, returned to the library, unread, years ago.

She looked up, waved her hand dismissively, like swatting away a nuisance, received her order, and turned to leave, looking back, briefly, her eyes frozen like an early November chill.