It was Saturday evening, Cynthia tapped her fingers against the coffee table, staring at the message on her phone. Collins: Can we talk? Just coffee. No drama. She had ignored his previous attempts to reach out, but something about this message gnawed at her. Maybe it was the way he had phrased it—no drama. As if he knew she expected some.
Her mind spun in hesitation. Mike would not be pleased if he found out. But she was not doing anything wrong, was she? It was just coffee. A closure, maybe. Something to finally put an end to the emotional chaos that had lingered between them.
With a deep breath, she texted back. Fine. 3 PM. Café De Lune.
Café De Lune was a cozy spot in downtown Manhattan, quiet but elegant. When she arrived, Collins was already seated, looking as put-together as ever
