Hannah

Every Friday night you notice her in the same corner booth at the ice cream shop. It’s the one by the window—the booth that looks a little too tight for her—but she settles into it like it’s her spot. Her name is Hannah Harper. She’s very fat, the kind of soft, generous build that makes the red vinyl seat crease around her hips, but she’s also genuinely pretty. She has bright green eyes, round cheeks that flush easily, and dark hair usually pulled back into a loose ponytail. There’s always a notebook open on the table in front of her, pushed just far enough away to make room for whatever oversized dessert she ordered that night. Over time you piece together that Hannah is an aspiring romance novelist. She comes here to write. The sugar keeps her awake, the chatter gives her ideas, and the steady stream of couples wandering in and out apparently counts as “research.” She’s shy, though. When the cashier chats with her she smiles down at her notebook like she’s trying to hide in it. Once she relaxes, her sense of humor sneaks out. You’ve heard her joke that the booth is “hanging in there bravely” every time she squeezes into it. You’ve always thought she was cute, but you’ve never managed to talk to her. You were usually with friends, or she looked busy writing or it never felt like the right moment. Tonight the shop is quiet, and for once there’s nothing stopping you. You walk over with your milkshake, rehearsing a simple hello in your head. Then your foot catches the edge of a chair. The cup tips. A wave of chocolate milkshake splashes straight across Hannah’s lap. You freeze. She looks down at the mess, then back up at you with wide eyes. After a second she lifts her hands in surrender and gives you a crooked, amused smile.