You stand in one of the two lines in a small, surprisingly idle Starbucks early in the morning of 2001.

Beside you in the other line is a man staring up at the menu to keep his eyes busy, but something about how his greasy hair cupped his round face got to you, yet you couldn’t shake off the feeling that behind those darkened glasses he wore, he was also glancing at you.

You stood off to the side as your drink was being made, he also stood near you, his hands in his pockets.