#goodins

              Henry was standing in line at a café he had never visited before, waiting to place his order. He had already checked for familiar faces when he walked in the door a few minutes earlier and seen no one he knew, so it surprised him to feel a shock of recognition as he looked at this stranger, who was still engrossed in his book. Henry scrambled to remember where he had seen the man, but no meeting or interaction came to mind.

              “Next,” called the woman behind the counter, and Henry jumped. He had been so focused on the stranger that he hadn’t noticed the line in front of him dwindling.

              “Uh, can I get a small vanilla latte?” he asked, knowing that the coffee would make him even more anxious and completely disregarding that knowledge. “And, uh, a chicken sandwich, but with no tomatoes, please.”

              He hated the taste of tomatoes, and had ever since he was a child. The taste of tomatoes made him want to vomit. Even the thought of them made him feel a little sick, so he tried to ignore the word on the menu and focused on paying for his lunch instead.

              Once he paid and got his meal number, he found a table in a secluded corner where he could still see the stranger who had so caught his attention, and dropped into a seat. His phone was in his hand before he realized it. Smiling wryly, he dug his headphones out of his pocket and slid them into his ears. Seconds later, all the café noises melted away.

              The food and coffee arrived. While Henry ate, he continued to glance up at the stranger every few minutes. The man remained oblivious to Henry’s curious looks, and Henry wondered if he would look up even if something exploded. Nothing exploded, and the man continued to read. The title of the book was too far away for Henry to be able to make it out, but he could just barely see a picture of a crab on the front cover.

              Henry took this opportunity to study the stranger’s face a bit more closely. Though he was looking down, it was plain that he had a kind, open face. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his slightly crooked nose, and a mop of brown curls flopped across his forehead, giving him a scholarly appearance. He sported a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache, which only added to the effect. His shirt collar, just visible above his navy-blue sweater, was crisp and white, and below the table, Henry could see khaki dress pants and sensible shoes. Unable to remember the last time he’d worn such a professional outfit, Henry returned to his coffee with a grimace.

              It was as he was about to leave that it happened. Someone had just opened the door in front of him, and the gust of frigid wind caught Henry off guard. The breath hitched in his chest, and for some reason, he glanced over to where the stranger sat. The man met his eyes.

              Henry Collins had never left a café so hastily. There had been no judgement in the stranger’s face, just surprise and puzzlement, yet the surge of unwarranted recognition Henry felt as he locked eyes with the man had unnerved him such that he nearly bolted through the door and down the street. Feeling pursued, he made it back to his apartment in record time, and resolved to stop drinking coffee.