Three people walk into a coffee shop and do not meet.

There’s a piece of abstract art on the wall and Gilbert thinks it looks like shit. It doesn’t even look intentional—the strokes are messy, the paint-job is uneven, globed on in some places and too thin in others—it's stupidly amateur. The signature is the worst part, in barely practiced cursive, ugly brown stamped on sickeningly bright yellow. He wonders if the artist was proud of it, if they worked hard, how they worked, how long it took them to regurgitate this half-assed window into their half-assed soul. He understands that he’s being a dick, but this is his head, and he’s tired of pretending he’s someone he’s not. Faith, as the Hancock-esque signature proclaims, sounds like a bitch anyways.

Maggie doesn’t like coffee. But, she’s decided she wants to be an intellectual today, and so she is going to sit in this café and drink the bitter caramel brulé latte she reluctantly ordered and jot down notes until someone compliments her outfit, or gives her a longing glance, or her ass gets numb. Whatever comes first. She almost meets eyes with a girl in a tank top that says cherry bomb, but the girl sneezes and the moment is ruined. She sighs, takes a drink, gags, and writes photosynthesis is the process of converting energy from solar to chemical.

Ted is having the worst fucking day. The café is busy, he’s tired, and Miranda is late coming back from her break, which means that Abby will be late for their break, which means Ted will be late for his. The manager won’t like that, which Ted knows, but he’s too caught up with remembering orders to care. The coffee smell is giving him a headache. He’s taking some blond chick’s order—a hot café mocha, bad choice, it’s too strong—and as he’s ringing her up, she says, “Thank you ma’am!” Ted sneers, but Abby is back from their break and tapping his shoulder, so he decides to be the bigger person for the millionth time in his miserable existence and go on break.

The universe is all about stars.

Colliding, avoiding,

straying, exploding

stars.

If they do not meet, then who exists—

if not the space between their lips

and the dead language they whisper.

There is not enough time for me to meet you.

I’m sorry.