I never leave the house this early. Since I have no job to go to anymore, and don’t want more unsolicited advice from my parents, I leave before they wake. I’m going to hide out in a coffee shop until the morning rush passes. Maybe go back to their house after they've left for work and wallow in junk television. Alone.

    The door crashes open harder than I intend, rattling. I place my order to a guy not much younger than I am.

    "Triple shot latte for...?"

    "Mary."

    "For Mary. Coming right up."

    He has too much energy and no caffeine jitters. I hate him.

    But he's using an older model espresso machine. Forgiven?

    "For you, Mary."

    I thank him before snagging the morning's paper. The place remains deserted as I get entirely too engrossed in the crossword. The door jingles, but I don't look up.

    "There he is," bellows the enthusiastic employee. "The usual coming right up."

    The latte has gone right through me, but it's not enough. Jumping from my seat, intent on ordering another round to clear the cobwebs from my brain, I'm met by a brick wall. A wall that spills steaming hot chocolate all over me.

    "That's it," I shriek. Every horrible thing that has happened in the last week bursts through the carefully constructed emotional walls I've built. And I lay into this guy. I mean I really let him have it. Flailing arms, screeching voice. Covered in hot chocolate and hair flying wildly, I'm sure I look crazy. I don't care. In that moment, this stranger is responsible for everything bad that has ever happened to me. Every time I was dumped, or had a bad hair day. Every single one of my first-world problems. My lost job. Moving back in with mom and dad. All of it came spilling out of that cup onto my favorite hoodie. The light gray one.

    I stop screaming when I realize he’s not reacting. I mean, he's looking at me, but he's just taking it all in. Realizing I'm finished, he looks to the employee behind the counter who shrugs.

    And this guy, he doesn't say anything. He smiles an embarrassed kind of smile, and presses a stack of napkins into my hands with forty dollars he pulls from his pocket. He gestures with his hands and leaves quickly, head down, without getting another drink.

    As I'm wiping myself off, the employee rolls over with a mop bucket. After a moment of silent mopping he speaks.

    "I'm sorry."

    "It's not your fault."

    "No." He stops mopping and repeats the hand gesture. "It means I'm sorry. Charlie was apologizing."

    "He was deaf?"

    "Yep."

    "And you just happen to know how to sign."

    "All my life. Charlie's my brother."

    I can't speak. After everything I just said to this guy's brother, I have no other words. I'm too embarrassed.

    "He gave you the money for getting your sweatshirt cleaned. I'll get you another drink, on me."