The coffee went cold.

I drank it anyway.

A boy rode by on a bicycle with a fishing rod balanced across his handlebars.

“Nice mug,” he said, and kept on pedaling.

I said thank you to his back.

The ferry clock struck five.

I carried the empty mug home.

The rosebush beside the front steps had a single white rose left on it, late and stubborn and shut tight against the cold.