She was here to... talk.
The thought sent shivers down her spine, even as the smile began to creep back onto her face, just a little, despite her efforts.
Nomad... It's not a dark alley.
She wanted to laugh at his choice of meeting place.
The cafe was so bright. The blue and green antique lamps threw dancing light around the cafe, onto the poufy chairs, onto the bright walls, onto the grey streamers of rain still streaking down the windows. The picture windows and the marigolds and the cheery barista were a far cry from the dark spots that were supposed to house these sorts of dealings. But of course that was the idea. Clandestine locales drew scrutiny.
Nomad... who are you?
She looked around carefully at the visitors and wondered what kind of man it was that chose this place.
No one looked her way, all filing into line bending to look at the pastries under the glass counter, or squinting at the menu that spanned the entire wall behind it.
Her stomach grumbled.
Shut up.
She would have brought lunch but that would have attracted questions at the office. She was all of a sudden thankful that Nomad had chosen this place and time. In a busy place right in the middle of the noon rush, no one was bothering to notice that she wasn't ordering.
Her stomach grumbled again.
She ran her hands reflexively over the edges of her ID card in her pocket.
No, she chided herself. You'll eat at dinner.
Buying anything would be moronic. With both of them here, together - it would be a stupid risk.
The door slammed again.
A silver watch peeked out from under a grey hoodie sleeve. A grey eye peeked down at it, then up at her, studying her, moving over the hair, the clothes she had described in chat. The dark circles under the grey irises said he wanted to be at home in bed, alone and asleep.
He sat in the poufy chair that nested in the corner beside her own.
She looked at him but didn't say anything.
He didn't look like the creatures that crawled in the dark nests of the internet – or so the warnings went. He was tall, but not much taller than her. A few years older, but still young. He had a backpack and a university sweater. NYU it said. She was shocked that he wore such personal info. She would never have asked. Maybe there was no point in hiding personal info at this point.
Or maybe it was fake.
But she would never ask.
"Evade?"
Her heart thudded. "Nomad?"
"I have something to tell you," he said.
He shifted towards her on the poufy chair. He leaned on his fist as one elbow rested, crooked, on his knee. She mirrored the movement, at the last minute reflexively turning her head, moving her ear towards his lips.
His voice was a low whisper under the screaming machines and the chattering lunch crowd.
"My name's John."
Her heart stopped. She felt herself break into a smile, but she couldn't... she couldn't say anything. Would he? Would he ask?
And his whisper continued,
"What's your name?"
Author
Blythe, Aelius: (1987–)
North American scribe, timid, nomadic. Female of the species H. sapiens. Also wrote:
Stories About Things
World
CEASA
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