I openThe Name of the Wind, trying to focus. The prose is immediately beautiful, lush and rhythmic, the writing that makes you slow down and read sentences twice just to feel them. Kvothe is already annoying me, which I suspect is the point. But I keep stealing glances at Silas. He's readingThe Dragon Reborn, book three of Wheel of Time. He reads the way I do, completely absorbed, turning pages with his left hand, body still except for his eyes. Every now and then he does this thing where he tilts his head slightly, like something on the page surprised him.
At seven, he gets up for coffee from the library's ancient vending machine. The machine makes a grinding sound like it's dying every time someone uses it, but the coffee is hot and costs seventy-five cents and that's all you can really ask of a machine that old.
He brings back two cups. Sets one on the table nearest to my section. A clear invitation.
I move to that table, and he settles at the next one over. Close enough to feel connected, far enough to keep reading. Perfect.
"Good book?" he asks quietly.
"Beautiful prose," I whisper back. "Kvothe's already annoying me though."
"He gets worse."
"Perfect."
We read in companionable silence until 8:30, when a group of seniors arrives for their Monday morning book club, talking loudly about their grandchildren and someone named Barbara's hip replacement. The spell breaks, but gently.
Silas catches my eye and makes a face, fond, not annoyed, and I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing. He goes back to his corner in fiction. I stay in reference. The distance between us feels smaller than it did an hour ago.
I read for three more hours.The Name of the Windswallows time whole. I look up and it's 11:30 and I've blown through a hundred and forty pages and my neck aches from hunching over the table. Kvothe has been insufferable and brilliant in equal measure, and the writing is so good it makes me angry. Nobody should be allowed to write prose this beautiful and then not finish the trilogy.
At 11:30, I close my book reluctantly. "I should get ready for work."
"The café has fresh croissants on Monday mornings," Silas says from his corner, not looking up from his page. "Robin stress-bakes on Sundays."
"I know. He texted me pictures of his stress-baking at midnight."
Now he looks up. "He texts you?"
"Usually with captions like 'why won't the lamination work' and 'the croissants are mocking me.'"
Silas laughs, quiet and warm. "Sounds like Robin."
I want to suggest we eat breakfast together. Want to ask if he'll still be here when I'm working. Want to do a lot of things that require bravery I don't have.
"See you at noon?" he asks, solving the problem for me.
"Yeah. I'll save you a good croissant."
"Looking forward to it."
At noon, I walk through the connecting door to the café to find Robin surrounded by croissant carnage.
"Don't ask," he says. "Just know that I've conquered laminated dough and I am a god."
"They look perfect."
"They ARE perfect. Try one."
It's possibly the best croissant I've ever had. Buttery, flaky, with just the right amount of chew. I close my eyes on the first bite.
"Okay, you're definitely a god."
"I know, right? Oh, Silas is still in his reading spot. He said he's coming over in a bit for lunch."
My stomach does a little flip.
The lunch rush hits before I can overthink it. Monday means library workers wanting quick lunches, parents grabbing coffee after dropping kids at school, the usual chaos. I fall into the rhythm. Steam, pour, smile, repeat. The espresso machine and I have an understanding now. I know which portafilter sticks, which steam wand angle gives the best microfoam, how long to let a shot pull before it goes bitter. Robin works the pastry case and the register while I handle drinks, and we move around each other without bumping, without talking, a week into sharing this space and already fluent in it.