On lunch.

The sun wasn't doing much against the cold despite being bright enough, reflecting off the pavement and the nearby buildings, to leave me squinting into the light.

I was waiting on lunch, hands shoved in the pockets of the winter coat that was suddenly needed—from which I excavated a long-lost, beloved lip gloss that very morning—and regretting that I left my gloves at my desk.

I’m friendly with the Tuesday food truck guys, the sweet Gen-Z himbos and their frankly flawless (imo) operation. There’s no real benefit to being a regular, other than that I don’t have to give my name for my order anymore and of having a routine to look forward to and the comfort, however minor, of being known.

While I was standing there, lightly eavesdropping on my fellow sandwich-wanters milling about, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a solitary snowflake drift past. It landed on my lapel, a little star, and melted away into nothing with the touch of a finger.

They called my name. You’ll be here all season? I asked, reaching to take another shockingly large eggplant parm from the kid’s outstretched hands.

You bet, he said, we’ll be seeing you again.