When the boy failed to show up the next day, I was rather disappointed. My eyes were constantly searching the dull gray streets for any sign of his bulky backpack, but he was nowhere in sight. Twice, I accidentally poured coffee on myself, and my face seemed almost permanently red from continual embarrassment. By the end of the day, I was tired and had numerous blotches of coffee over my clothing. To add onto my increasing frustration, the light above the counter kept flickering on and off. As I usually had no customers past the midnight hour, I climbed onto a barstool and attempted to remove the bulb.

The tinkling of the bell sounded, and I foolishly turned around in surprise. In the dim lighting of the café, I couldn’t see the person very well, but it looked like the boy. I was about to greet him when my footing slipped and I fell to the floor. The light bulb I had been holding in my hand shattered upon impact with the ground. The boy immediately ran over to me and helped me to my feet. I gingerly moved my hand to inspect the damage. Several shards of glass were imbedded in my flesh, and I could see steady trickles of blood running down my arm. Even that slight movement caused me to hiss in pain.

“I’m sorry I surprised you,” the boy murmured, ducking his head in shame. He was rummaging around in his gigantic backpack.

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” I said slowly, “I’m naturally clumsy like that.” I sat down at a nearby table and the boy slid in beside me. He opened a first aid kit on the counter and took out a pair of tweezers. Doubtfully, I stared at him.

“You can trust me,” he said quietly. “I’ve done this before.” He looked at me expectantly and I held my injured hand out to him. I tried to ignore the sharp little pains as he expertly took out each shard. Even in the darkness, I could make out the strands of hair that fell in his eyes.

“What are you doing out so late?” I asked, trying to make conversation with him.

“I just came back from something,” he said vaguely. I desperately wanted to ask him what he had been doing, but I didn’t want to pry and put him on the defensive.

“Why are you still up?” he asked me, swiftly changing the topic with a practiced air I could never have achieved.

“I have insomnia,” I admitted, looking away from him. He stopped for a moment, his hand posed gracefully in the air. Studying my hand intently he pulled out another shard and smiled at me.

“You have beautiful hands,” he told me. “They remind me of my mother’s.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, but he let go of my hand and I let go of a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding in. Gently, he wrapped my hand in a bandage of some sort and started to smooth out the creases.

“Thank you,” I finally said. I stood up, and made my way to the counter. “Do you want anything?” He followed behind me, as if afraid I would somehow fall again.

“A Café Bombon,” he said. “I’ve been craving something sweet all day.” I could feel his eyes on me as I made his drink, and I nearly spilled it on myself in my nervousness. I placed it in front of him, and started wiping the already clean counter. He sipped at his drink slowly, and stopped. I was afraid I had done something wrong. Was it too bitter for his taste? Had I somehow gotten my ratios wrong? All these thoughts raced through my head, but easily evaporated when he gave me a light smile.

“It’s not surprising that beautiful hands can brew delicious coffee,” he said. To hide my shaky happiness at his praise, I turned around and reached for a couple of napkins. When I faced him again with a clear head, he had finished his coffee. He started to place a few bills on the counter, but I shook my head.

“The coffee was payment for your help today,” I said firmly. “Thank you.” He watched me for a few seconds and then leaned towards me.

He kissed me softly on the forehead.

“You’re welcome,” he said, as he reached for his backpack. Within a few seconds, he was gone.

I decided to leave the broken light in.