Seth sat on the edge of his cafe seat, waiting for some sign from the Universe, that there was some good to come from being kicked out of law school. A ticket officer passed by the window, machine in hand. The city hummed with relentless life, horns a choir muffled behind the glass. Suddenly, a chair hit his back.

He turned. “Excuse me-” A tall, broad man leaned against the chair, brown curls teasing morning stubble. The sheepish smile was soft, if not charming.

“Excuse. You hurt?” The Russian growl made Seth blush. He’d been watching too much- “I hit your head? Come now, where is your tongue?”

A laugh escaped. “I’m fine. Tongue very much in place.” The chair was swung around to the window counter, the stranger sitting down with a mug.

“May I join you?” Seth rose an eye.

“I think you already have.” The puff of cinnamon kissed his nose. “Dolche cinnamon? Nice taste.”

“I usually do.” The stranger lengthened his legs comfortably, arm draped casually across the chair. Then he reached out with an open hand. “Dima.”

“Seth.”

Dima’s hand was cool, calloused in the palm. There were no shadows or tans along the fingers, save for a tattoo ring on his right little finger. A tickle at his wrist made Seth retract, making him realize he was leaning forward at the curious design, directly into the heady cologne.

“Sorry. Haven’t seen many ring tattoos. I love the laurel design.”

Dima gave a small smile. “It’s a reminder.”

“What have you forgotten?” Stupid question, Seth chided himself.

Dima winked. “Your number.”