She ordered a shaken ice chai, and I ordered a cappuccino. Didn't matter that I hated coffee; didn't matter that the taste made my tongue wince and my teeth grow another inch in agony. I just sipped away and watched as her tea slowly disappeared through her straw, a muddy river zipping to her lips and disappearing as if down a vast, unending gorge.
We knew it had to end some day. I just didn't know it'd end at a shitty café in downtown Los Angeles, six years later.