They stand in line, zombie-pale and stiff, some yawning, texting, staring at anything but the person in front or behind them, and I try to identify which ones might have mated this morning, which are on the verge of destruction, if any have by chance killed someone ever, or recently, and if so what type of weapon was used, if fear-of-getting-caught is the reason for their shifty eyes.

I wonder who’s a racist and which of these might have been the one to chuck that trash can through the storefront window.

I wonder how long the dentist will persist in flirting with the new girl who’s wiping down his table, wonder if he’ll give up fast, like he did with me.

The maw of machinery and the rumble of whispered voices puts me into a trance as I work, and I wonder. I wonder and wonder.

I wonder who would think it odd, who titillating, if I was to leave my phone number on their cup, right below the felt tip markings for what drink it is. I’d write my number in different colored ink, pink perhaps. For effect, I’d add: “Call me. I mean business.”

I wonder if any of the women in line have ever been raped like me, which ones have fathers they love, who’s considering an upgrade.

I wonder how many of these people pray.

The lady and small girl are of interest to me because the kid has to do all the work, lifting her chubby doll arm so high to hold the tall woman’s hand, not smiling at all this little girl, her lips just making wave motions, worm squiggles, as if she’s trying to swallow a hive of hornets. I wonder if the girl will become famous some day. I wonder if she’ll have an eating disorder and how long she’ll stay a virgin. I wonder if she’s anything at all like me. Right then and there I want to stab the air with my fist, punch out my encouragement and shout, “Stay strong!” but of course I don’t. Instead I rip off a scrap of napkin and write down three words: “Hold on loosely.” I fold the paper until it’s a tiny white aspirin, and then I toss the message over the bean crusher where it slips between a crack.

The man with the too big eyes sees me. He makes a sniffing movement, widening his nostril tunnels. At the counter, he speaks to the teller while I scribble his preferences on the drink cup. Hair of a second later I go to retrieve the message, but he gets there first.

He waits until the crowd thins before approaching. The lenses magnify his pupils. They’re scored brown, the color of macadamias, like they belong to frogs or ghouls.

When he asks what time my shift’s done, I gurgle saliva and make nonsense signs and symbols with my fingers.

“Oh,” he says, thinking I’m deaf. “I get it.”

He gives my wrist a gentle squeeze and then walks out a heavier man.

I remove my apron and rinse my hands. I push the bar soap into the new steam burns around my wrists, into the places where the jagged plastic lids have sliced my fingers. I hear myself hiss and sigh no different than these espresso machines themselves. Clean. I sing the word. To myself, I create the stanza, “I want to be clean. I need to be clean. I must be clean.”

He’s waiting for me outside, Mr. Too Big Eyes is. He’s leaning on my car, driver’s side door.

“How did you know?”

He grins, a sheriff whose caught his man. “Let’s go grab a cup of coffee,” he says.

My father liked his steaming black, no cream, sugarless.

“I’m not going to bite,” the man says.

I stall. After what happened, Mother said not to trust too easily, especially men, especially strangers.

This one reads me. “You can tell me about it,” he says. “I’ll listen.”