It wasn't until Ben was at the customer service desk, the process of returning the faulty printer already in-progress, that he realized she'd written her number on the receipt.

Her handwriting was tiny, delicate, curvy like her. Ben couldn't decipher it immediately enough for a quick transposing. He needed time to take it in, to make sure he got her number right, to appreciate her cute little scrawlings.

"I need your receipt, SIR," said the bored, faux-punk teenage cashier. The line behind Ben was long, irritated.

He left the store with the receipt, a bad printer, and a wide smile.