POV: Cellie
The morning air in Brooklyn tasted of exhaust fumes and broken dreams, a familiar cocktail that had become my signature scent since moving to this overpriced shoebox of an apartment. I pushed through the glass door of "The Daily Grind," the little bell above announcing my arrival with an irritating jingle that never failed to grate on my nerves. Today was no exception.
My eyes immediately scanned the counter, expecting to find Glen's lopsided grin and the way he always slid my pumpkin spice latte across the counter with a wink, as if sharing in some secret conspiracy against the mundane world that existed beyond these four walls.
But Glen wasn't there.
Instead, some fresh-faced kid with hands that shook like a recovering alcoholic was fumbling with the espresso machine, ste
