Mildred had noticed the red scarflette wrapped around the old woman’s left wrist, in the same way she noticed that the biker girl had a tuft of hair seemingly immune to gel and the architect fella was a chronic silent farter; when you worked a cafe you got to know people by appearance and traits rather than names. But she hadn’t taken particular heed of the scarflette. It was just… there. Unremarkably remarkable.

Until the spill happened.

The architect fella had ordered his usual huge pot of coffee and sat down to work. (The owner, Jack, had decided the best way to deal with laptops cluttering up the place was to put a row of one-person booths down the centre of the room, with comfy seats and charging ports, then declare everywhere else off-limits to ‘productive loiterers’.) A standard laptop took up about half of a booth table, and the architect had a larger model, so the coffee pot was perched on the corner of the table, right by the aisle. Safely away from HIS elbows.

He’d done it hundreds of times. It’d always been fine.

And the rushing college student had darted through the cafe to get to the counter as quickly as possible dozens of times. Again, it’d always been fine.

But today their individual mundane risk-taking intersected in the worst way.

Her bag clipped the tall coffee-pot, sending it flying sideways - over the side of the booth and into that half of the standard seating, piping hot coffee disgorging in a scalding ribbon that transmuted the morning buzz into screams of pain or panic and set people jerking away - often causing more spills.

It only took a moment. Three seconds, if that. And now Mildred’s cosy workday was filled with frantic first-aid while she and Jack figured out if they needed to call paramedics.

First order of business was getting the piping-hot coffee off people, which in many cases involved helping them escape soaked articles of clothing as quickly as possible. Mildred was wrapped up in the task and didn’t really register the old woman’s flailing and desperate “NO! NO!!” as Mildred tugged off the stained jacked and scarflette-

And the woman’s left hand went with it.

What could you possibly say, when you’d just detached someone’s limb against their will BY ACCIDENT and didn’t even know their name and had half a dozen other people to check on?

Mildred blankly gabbled “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry.” and shoved the woman’s hand into, well, the woman’s other hand, and moved to help the young father who was desperately trying to soothe his distraught five-year-old.

Thankfully all the burns turned out to be minor. Jack deployed ice packs and when he ran out of those started packing ice into plastic cups. The architect was desperately apologising to everyone, and seemed deeply guilty about having completely dodged the splash.

The rushing student had vanished out the door as quickly as she entered, without her usual green tea smoothie but hopefully with a far greater appreciation for the importance of care and spatial awareness. Mildred wasn’t sure the poor girl would ever come in here again; she’d certainly be too humiliated if she’d caused such a scene.

Oh. Speaking of which…

The old woman was struggling to tie up the red scarflette one-handed.

Mildred stammered “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t - I should’ve - can I help you with that?”

“Would you?” The old woman kept her head ducked, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Though Mildred was the only one actually looking at her. “My husband normally does it for me, and…”

“Of course, of course!” Mildred slid into the opposite seat and carefully took the ends of the scarflette, while the old woman straightened her severed hand so it was properly aligned with the arm. “Does, er, does it need a special knot or…?”

“Oh, no, a double square is fine.”

“I, uh, I don’t really know knots-”

“The standard one, dearie. Wrap one end around the other and pull snug.”

“Oh! Right. Ok.” Mildred did one knot, and then another… and once the severed hand was secured it gingerly flexed.

“Yes, that should see me home safely. Thank you, dearie.”

Mildred contritely tore her blank stare away. “Oh, there’s no need to - it’s my fault it needed doing in the first place! Sorry, I didn’t realise it was, um, a medical device.”

The old woman blinked and then chuckled. “I suppose you could call it that. Don’t worry, I know you were just trying to help. It was such a panic. Let’s all just be glad nobody’s hurt.”

“Daddy! Daddy!” The child excitedly yanked on his father’s arm. “That lady’s a witch!”

“PETER!” The beleaguered father spluttered. “I’m so sorry, ma’am-”

“Her hand comes off!!”

“That doesn’t mean she’s a witch, Peter! And don’t point.” He caught his son’s errant hand and firmly guided it back to the table. “You wouldn’t like people pointing at you and making a fuss because your hand DOESN'T come off, now would you?”

Peter’s dubious pout suggested he felt those things Weren’t The Same, and Mildred personally agreed, but she also agreed with his father’s fumbled teaching. She smiled at Peter and shot a helpless, apologetic glance at the old woman. Who actually seemed less awkward and self-conscious now. Perhaps because everyone else had brushed off Peter’s announcement, caught back up in their own business.

“Can I ASK if-”

“No you may not because it’s none of our business. Now, your tablet’s fine - thank goodness for this case! - so sit quietly and read your book, alright?”

Peter pouted and sighed and resigned himself to polite ignorance. The cafe lapsed into its usual hum. Mildred heaved a sigh of relief and headed for the cleaning closet.

Silently wondering what other remarkably unremarkable traits surrounded her.