I stared down at the design the barista drew into the foam of my cappuccino and said nothing over the lump growing in my throat. My partner looked over my shoulder and I could hear the smile in his voice as he said,

“Isn’t that nice? Three hearts. Must mean we’ll be in love for a long time.” He kissed the top of my head and grabbed his cup of black coffee off the counter. There were no designs in his.

“Yes,” I said. “Lovely.”

We sat by the window and sipped at our drinks. He was unusually talkative or perhaps I was unusually quiet. I didn’t remember half of what he said by the time we finished and walked out of the cafe. We held hands as we walked back to our apartment, only two blocks away.

I watched him sleep that night, unaware of what the three hearts meant. If I was lucky and quick, he’d never know. But then, if I were lucky, I wouldn’t know what three hearts meant. I’d think they were a nice sign, too, but they weren’t. I knew that in my heart.