Celeste arrived five minutes earlier than she should have. She always did, especially when it came to Amara.
She sat by the wide glass window of the little restaurant. The place was tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, humming with the faint smell of roasted garlic and butter, while soft jazz trickled through the air.
Outside, the sunlight pressed gently against the glass, lighting up the little vase of daisies on her table. She kept her hands busy, smoothing over the hem of her blouse, and scrolling aimlessly through her phone, while pretending she wasn't restless.
Amara finally walked in.
She spotted her instantly. She always did. Who wouldn't? Amara was tall, graceful, and with a presence that never had to announce itself.
