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Perhaps one day I will learn the name of the bearded barista who always serves me my chamomile with a crooked smile.

Perhaps one day he will ask for my name, intrigued by the woman who never craves the caffeine that draws such crowds to his coffeehouse late Tuesday nights.

Perhaps one unassuming question will follow another, unraveling strange intricacies of identity over chamomile and blueberry scones on his break.

And perhaps, that evening, as my still brewing tea burns my fingertips through the cardboard of my cup, he will cease to be my bearded barista, and become Tom, from Missouri, with two sisters and a dog.

But, surely, I will miss my bearded barista and his grin next Tuesday when Tom greets me and hands me my chamomile without that familiar question in his eyes, but instead with a knowing nod and a scone "on the house."