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Fausto sends a picture to our tiny family group chat of something horrifying he claims to have cooked, and Maggie asks whether I’m still free Sunday.

I tell her yes.

And sometime between steaming milk and restocking the pastry case, my phone vibrates in my apron.

I don’t look immediately. I’ve gotten better at that.

But when I finally have a second, I pull it out to see the Whisp notification.

Primavera1959 sent you a message.

The little lift in my chest is familiar now. Different from what happens to my whole body when Merry walks through the door. Not smaller, exactly. Simply different.

But I put my phone away and decide to reply when I have time.

The strange thing is that I find myself thinking about Primavera even when she hasn’t messaged me.

It’s not constant, and it’s never in a way that interrupts my life.

But she appears.

I’ll hear someone complain about something they very clearly want but refuse to ask for, and I’ll wonder what Primavera would say about it now. I’ll see a woman wearing gold earrings on the bus and remember the first item on that ridiculous list she struggled so hard to make. I’ll notice the moon and think about a woman I’ve never met walking around in the dark because I told her to pay attention.

She took that assignment so seriously. She’s taken all of them seriously, even while complaining about every single one.

That’s what I like most, I think.

Primavera can turn anything into a joke, but she keeps doing the work.

She went looking for what she’d been missing and made herself name things she wanted without explaining why she was allowed to want them.

She asked.

And every time I give her another reason to look at her own life, she comes back having noticed something new and exciting.

I’ve spent years giving people something to look for, and suddenly they see what has been sitting in front of them all along.

Primavera is paying attention now. And I find the way she does it almost unbearably charming. She overthinks and argues, and sends me four messages when one would have accomplished the same thing. She complains about everything but follows instructions to the tee.

Sometimes I catch myself waiting to see what she’ll notice next.

Which is its own kind of attention, I suppose.

“Flora.”

I blink. Luis is standing next to me with his apron already off.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you’re coming.”

“Coming where?”

He gives me a look. “Drinks.”

Right.

He mentioned it yesterday. A few people from The Spindle are going somewhere a couple of blocks away after work. I hadn’t given him an answer.