"It is hard to be without him in this city. There are pieces of him everywhere."
A woman with smooth brown hair and a French accent is telling a tale of heartbreak between sips of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream.
"He doesn't want to be my friend."
Rain falls, blurring the windows of the cafe. Her voice is sure and unwavering, without a hint of sadness. She presses her finger onto fallen flakes from her almond croissant and places it on her toungue.
"I told him, 'You will forgive me when you fall in love with someone else.'"
Her mouth slides up at the corners. She strokes the handle of the mug.
"He said he didn't want me to come because he was scared of getting hurt. But I had to."
Her voice suddenly goes from matter-of-fact to giddy.
"Because Max is driving up from San Jose."
She polishes off the pastry with a quick flourish, then rubs her hands together, sending a fine flurry of powdered sugar into the air.
"He would die if he knew."
(As seen and overheard at a cafe in North Beach, San Francisco.)