1:02 AM

"She lost her chirp."

"Her chirp?" I asked.

"Yea," she replied. She looked down into her coffee cup and gave it a swirl. I would have thought she was looking at tea leaves for answers if I didn't know it was coffee. But I did know it was coffee, and that always changes everything in cafes.

"What do you mean?" I pressed, when she failed to ellaborate. She hesitated. I could hear the barista banging a brew head against the espresso bucket to empty it of the damp dredges.

"Well, she used to sing. And now she doesn't. Or at least, she doesn't so often," she said. I looked at her, using my eyes to make it clear that this conversation made no sense to me. Or it did, but I did not want it to, so I feigned ignorance. She sighed, and with a roll of her eyes continued, still preferring her coffee cup to eye-contact.

"She used to be a rare voice on a hot summer day. A bug, buzzing like a humming bird and associated with the heat. Then when the moon rose up, she chirped; a cricket. She was a cricket, with legs made of springs, eyes that took in all facets of the world, a voice that could not be silenced. Now, she sometimes buzzes. But I haven't heard her chirp in a while. She lost her chirp."

I nodded thoughtfully. I had nothing to say.