In line for a mocha latte, I spot Aaron at the corner table reading Baseball America. He looks just the way I remember him: rumpled plaid shirt, unruly hair, fuzzy beard in need of a trim.
The barista calls my name. Aaron's head snaps to attention.
Maybe he misses me like I miss him. I claim my coffee, then glance hopefully back to the corner table again.
Aaron never was much good at sticking around, I remind myself as I head to the exit, ashamed of my ceaseless optimism.
Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.