The worn linoleum beneath my feet seemed to shimmer in the fluorescent glare as I spilled coffee all over the stranger's sketchbook. Our eyes met in that fleeting moment of embarrassment, and she smiled, this fleeting, almost imperceptible crease on one side of her mouth. I rushed forward to apologize, but she held up a crumpled hand, eyes flickering to the stain spreading across her art. I hesitated, not sure what to do, and she surprised me by pulling me into the booth beside her. We sat there as she delicately cleaned the spot with a napkin, her movements slow and controlled. She introduced herself, saying her name was Lysandra, the scribbled edges of her book still visible on her lap.
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