“I love you,” she said. Her face was damp with tears and the misery made her look ugly and old. She was young and pretty; at least she had been an hour back. When she had believed that I loved her back.
I looked across the café at the barista. She was decorating a cream topped beverage with bright pink sprinkles. The moment warped and grew sparkly as everything became razor sharp but tinged blue, like a great TV screen going bad. I could see the sprinkles reflected in the barista’s eyes.
I t...