“You look like a man doing long division in his head,” she said.

“I might be.”

She handed me the cup through the window.

“That one’s on the house.

The last pot always tastes like a penny.”

I thanked her, and she patted the roof of the Buick like it was a horse.

The new cup was warm against my palm, and I set it in the holder beside the first one.

“You waiting on somebody?” she asked.