I sit at the table after I get my mocha latte with oat milk. A young woman, blonde, sits at the table in front of me, her head leaning against the brick wall, her gaze elsewhere. Something about her has me think she is angst-ridden, considering a decision. Her stare is profoundly deep—like she is staring at a scenario playing in her head, endlessly looping.

She pulls her head from the wall and quickly moves to pick up her cell phone and begins texting.

A young man returns from the bathroom. She slides the phone under the table as he moves toward her to sit.

She becomes lively. Speaks with a suburban somewhere accent with occasional up talk. That’s all I hear above the noise of the busy café.

She emphasizes her language by gesturing with a hand, her fingers closed.

Something is up. Yet the man does not notice.

If he did, it might dawn on him that his companion is not all she seems.

I surmised she is holding something back. A secret. Yet the man remains unaware.

She continues to talk, the pace of her voice quickening. The tenor of her voice rises.

This secret is likely overwhelming her. She fears discovery. The boyfriend, however, remains unaware of how torn and terrorized she is.

When she falls silent, he speaks.

His expression is blank, somewhat deflated.

Finally, he gets up, gives her a quick kiss, and leaves the café.

The man isn’t even out the door when she pulls up her phone and begins tapping quickly.

Secret kept–and safe.

She looks behind her through the window. She gathers her things and rises.

Our eyes meet as she pulls her bag strap securely on her shoulder.

Her expression hints at fear.

I put my index finger to my lips.

She nods in response and hurries out the door.

I finally sip my latte. It is lukewarm.