He was wearing faded blue scrubs under a black café apron.
Then, three weeks ago, I walked into a café near one of our job sites and dumped hot coffee all over myself.
The lid popped off. Coffee hit my hand, the counter, the floor.
I hissed, “Great.”
A man at the bus tray station looked over, grabbed a mop, and limped toward me.
He was wearing faded blue scrubs under a black café apron. Later, I learned he came straight from his morning shift at an outpatient clinic to work the lunch rush there.
That was when I really looked at him.
“Hey,” he said. “Don’t move. I’ve got it.”
He cleaned the spill. Grabbed napkins. Told the cashier, “Another coffee for her.”
“I can pay for it,” I said.
He waved that off and reached into his apron pocket anyway, counting coins before the cashier told him it was already covered.
That was when I really looked at him.
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