The smell of grilled hotdogs drifts down the sidewalk like clockwork. You grab your usual order and turn toward the bench - the good one, under the oak tree, facing the street. It's where you always sit. Except today, someone else is already there. She's tall, earbuds in, hotdog in hand, completely at ease. She takes up most of the bench without a second thought - maybe without even noticing. The remaining sliver of seat doesn't look promising. She hasn't looked up once. You're standing there, tray in hand, trying to figure out your next move.