The barista slid the cup across the counter

The barista slid the cup across the counter,

her own gaze already past me, busy

with the register's low hum.

"You have really kind eyes," she said,

a small, almost accidental sum.

I felt my face go stiff, a sudden chill.

I looked down fast, at the chipped Formica,

the swirl of grit I couldn't quite kill

inside myself. My fingers found the pen,

worn smooth, a familiar, dull gray.

Kind eyes? That wasn't me. Not then.

Just let me drift away.