Occasionally, you get handed the Special Waffle—rectangular pieces of brie and thin, crescent-moon slices of Granny Smith apples drizzled with honey and resting on a modest, square-shaped buttermilk waffle—without a birthright for such things.
Without paying for it. Without having ordered it or even wanted it. Without deserving it or working for it or working harder and harder for it.
Not because Fortune smiles or frowns. Not because, out of the chaos, some undefinable, fuzzy universe gifts it to you. Not because the karmic is swirling around just looking for an opportunity to reward you (see: without deserving it).
Because, well, the barista had accidentally made an extra. Because she decided to not throw it away. Because she risked a social interaction out beyond the counter. Because she began her walkabout in the section where I happened to be sitting. Because two people without waffles had already declined.
Because, when she came to my table over in the corner, she noticed that I, too, had no waffle. Because, without her fully knowing, she had the power to give away what I was hungry for.