Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

He said it casually, the way people say things that destroy you: “You’d be stunning if you just lost — “

She didn’t let him finish.

She put her purse on the bar, picked up her coat, and said — very quietly, very clearly — “I’m going to stop you there,” and left.

She was three streets away before she started shaking. Not because he’d hurt her. She’d heard it before, different mouths, same arithmetic. She was shaking because she was so tired of it. Thirty-six years of being almost enough. Thirty-six years of almost.

The man outside the late-night bakery said: “Are you okay?”

She looked at him. He had kind eyes and flour on his sleeve and was holding a paper bag like an apology.

“No,” she said. “But I will be.”

“Do you want to sit somewhere?” He nodded at the steps. “I just finished a shift. I have too much bread.”

She laughed, startled. She sat.

His name was Nate. He was a baker — nights, so the day was his, and he moved through the world at the hours when it was quiet. He gave her bread and didn’t ask what happened and let her talk when she wanted to and didn’t fill the silence when she didn’t.

“You seem angry,” he said at one point.

“I am angry. I’ve been gracious about something I should have been angry about for a long time.”

“What changed?”

“I’m tired of almost,” she said. “I want someone who wants the whole of me. Not the potential version.” She looked at him. “Is that too much to want?”

“No,” he said, like it was obvious. “That’s the minimum.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

He walked her home. He asked for her number at her door and she gave it and he said: “For the record — “ and then paused.

“What?”

“I was going to say something about how you look,” he said, “but I think what I mean is — you’re interesting. The way you talk. The things you’re angry about.” He met her eyes. “I’d like to know more of it. If that’s alright.”

She stood on her doorstep and felt something she’d almost stopped believing in: the sensation of being seen as a beginning, not an apology.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s alright.”

He called the next morning. She answered before it rang twice.

So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee ☕. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.