She's sitting in an all together far too relaxed position in a chestnut brown, small leather sofa, occasionally sipping at the frothy milk on top of her cooling fair trade coffee. The man opposite her, somewhere in his mid thirties (she'd hazard a guess), is sitting in a similarly relaxed position. His legs are open facing her, in typical male stance. She muses as to what this body language might mean. He affects to be reading Bill Bryson on Shakespeare, but he frequently leans forward to stir his own coffee before sucking the foam off his spoon and sipping slowly from the large cup. Unaware, she begins to suck the end of her thumb, while she ponders who he is and whether he really is concentrating on his book, or whether he might be as distracted as she is. He relaxes back into his chair, stretching his legs forward towards her. She notices how brown his knees are beneath his loose, course-textured shorts. She notices too how beautiful his hands are as they turn the page of the book, a thin scar down his right forefinger and a plain, silver ring on his left hand. They are mirroring each other now, both raising a hand to their mouth as they look down at the pages on their laps, playing with the hair across their foreheads. She uncrosses her legs and pulls her skirt down an inch or so over her thighs, then unbuttons her coat. She plays with the fabric on her legs and reflects that both he and she finished drinking some time ago and neither had made to leave. She's thinking about removing her coat now, and whether it would be safe to leave it on the sofa while she queued for another cup. "Is it okay to sit here?" They both look up at each other and smile, and nod to the new arrival. He leans back into his chair, crosses his legs and eventually closes his book.