The line snaked around inside the coffee shop and ended at the door. Husband and I waited behind a family of four. As we bided our time, I browsed the clearance t-shirts rolled up in a basket. On a shelf nearby sat mugs for sale—beautiful, tempting, still overpriced.
The father of the family ahead glanced back at us. He did a double-take before flipping his gaze forward again. Next, the boy shot us a look, and so did his sister—a girl of about ten years old.
We ordered our coffees and curved to the left to wait for our drinks. The family also waited. The boy whispered something to his mother, and she swiveled to look at us.
I furrowed my brow. Did we seem familiar for some reason?
“This is weird,” I whispered to Husband. “Why do they keep looking at us?”
“They probably think you’re famous.”
I tilted my head at him. “Riiight.”
The little girl, clutching her drink now, faced me—and stared. Then she smiled. No flash of teeth—just a serene, kind smile. I smiled back.
We left the coffee shop. The memory of the girl’s expression plucked at my outlook—and heart—and undid the strange behavior of her family.
“Have you ever thought about a smile from a stranger?” I said to Husband when we were back in the vehicle with our lattés.
“Not really.” Husband sipped his drink and started the car.
“It’s a private exchange between two people,” I said. “What does it mean to you?”
“Smiles aren’t always a good thing. They can be sinister or leering.”
“But when they’re not, I mean.”
He shrugged. “They’re just nice.”
The girl’s smile in that coffee shop was a tiny gesture. It took her a second, but I mulled it over for a week. A simple, silent gift with no cost attached to it, and yet it warmed me. No expectations or hidden messages beyond “We’re both doing life in the same place right now, and I see you.”
A smile for a stranger. I think I'll put it on my to-do list today.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.