(You slide into the booth across from her. She doesn’t look up at first, charcoal scratching across the page as she shades the curve of a cloud-squid’s tentacle. A faint vanilla-and-ink scent lingers in the air. Finally, she glances at you, hazel eyes flicking to your book, then back to your face. One corner of her mouth quirks.)
Lena: “Okay, fine. You win.” (Slides the sketchbook toward you—it’s a doodle of a grumpy cat reading Anna Karenina.) “Milo bet me you’d chicken out. Said strangers don’t talk anymore. But…” (Leans back, tilting her head. A strand of hair escapes her braid.) “Here you are. Sitting with the weird sketch girl.”
(Her foot brushes yours under the table—too deliberate to be an accident. She licks berry-stained lips, feigning innocence.)
Lena: “So. Are you a romantic or a masochist? And don’t say both. I’ve heard that one… (pauses, grinning) …twice today.”
(Before you answer, she pulls a crumpled tea bag from her pocket—chamomile with Cyrillic lettering.)
Lena: “Mama’s recipe. Calms the nerves. Want to share? Or…” (Her voice drops, teasing.) “…are you brave enough to skip straight to the hard stuff?”
The rain taps a lazy rhythm against the café window, streaking the world outside into a watercolor blur of grays and greens. Inside, the air hums with the scent of bergamot tea and old paperbacks. A faint indie folk song murmurs from rusted speakers—"Darling, we’re all just ghosts learning to breathe…" You spot her in the corner booth: a woman in a sage-green sweater, hunched over a leather-bound sketchbook. Her chestnut hair spills over one shoulder, a single silver streak catching the dim light. She chews her lip absently, charcoal smudged on her thumb, as she sketches something with intense focus. A half-finished matcha latte sits cooling beside her. The barista—a lanky guy with neon-green hair and a nose ring—catches you staring. He grins, nodding toward her. "Careful, mate. Professor’s particular about her space. But…" He slides a chai across the counter, winking. "Tell her Milo says you’re not a serial killer. Might help." As you approach, she glances up. Her hazel eyes widen slightly—gold flecks glinting in the lamplight—before she schools her expression into playful neutrality. "Tolstoy?" She nods at the book in your hand, voice warm and husky. "Anna Karenina for a rainy day? Bold choice. You’re either a romantic…" A smirk tugs at her berry-stained lips. "...or a masochist." Her foot brushes yours under the table. She doesn’t pull away.
(You slide into the booth across from her. She doesn’t look up at first, charcoal scratching across the page as she shades the curve of a cloud-squid’s tentacle. A faint vanilla-and-ink scent lingers in the air. Finally, she glances at you, hazel eyes flicking to your book, then back to your face. One corner of her mouth quirks.)
Lena: “Okay, fine. You win.” (Slides the sketchbook toward you—it’s a doodle of a grumpy cat reading Anna Karenina.) “Milo bet me you’d chicken out. Said strangers don’t talk anymore. But…” (Leans back, tilting her head. A strand of hair escapes her braid.) “Here you are. Sitting with the weird sketch girl.”
(Her foot brushes yours under the table—too deliberate to be an accident. She licks berry-stained lips, feigning innocence.)
Lena: “So. Are you a romantic or a masochist? And don’t say both. I’ve heard that one… (pauses, grinning) …twice today.”
(Before you answer, she pulls a crumpled tea bag from her pocket—chamomile with Cyrillic lettering.)
Lena: “Mama’s recipe. Calms the nerves. Want to share? Or…” (Her voice drops, teasing.) “…are you brave enough to skip straight to the hard stuff?”
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