If someone would've asked you what a hipster was, your hand would've pointed at May.

And maybe the one asking would've laughed, because she looked like a stereotype, with her round glasses that were just slightly too big for her face, and the daisy chain which she wore like a crown wherever she went.

But you wouldn't.

Because you knew what was behind the tote bags and flower crowns and bamboo cups from which she drank black tea with a tiny bit of oat milk.

Because once you'd seen her alone in a tiny coffee shop, holding her white ukulele, her eyes closed, so at peace with herself.

And when you'd gone in to listen to the soft stream of music, she hadn't stopped, not even opened her eyes, but she'd asked if bees liked succulents.

Which you couldn't answer, but she didn't mind that, and after she'd finished playing the song that vaguely reminded you of Bohemian Rhapsody, she'd asked you if you wanted to come along, because there was a new second hand shop which she wanted to look at.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn't stop at that one, but went to countless thrift stores afterwards, and then home with her, because she wanted to see if the bees liked the succulents she'd just put out that morning.