Someone was here
June returned the book to the café shelf because the ending annoyed her. Beneath her complaint in pencil, someone had answered: Maybe the ending is only the beginning from the wrong person's perspective.
She looked around. A man was rinsing cups. Two students were arguing over a charger. Nobody looked like the sort of person who answered strangers in the margins.
June wrote: That sounds suspiciously like something a writer would say.
The following Tuesday, the response was waiting: Worse. An architect. We are professionally optimistic about unfinished things.
She laughed loudly enough for the barista to look up. After a month of meetings where she spoke only when spoken to, a stranger had somehow given her permission to be amused.
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