Page 5 of Love and Other Paradoxes

“No. And also, because it’s not really the point.” He leaned forward, no longer conscious of his body, following the pull of her thoughts on his. “The point is, when I’m feeling something, poetry is how it comes out. And when it goes right, it doesn’t feel like I’m trying,” he went on, aware he was describing something he hadn’t experienced in years. “It just feels like it happens.”

She was watching him with wide-eyed attention. He couldn’t tell if she was fascinated or appalled. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, laughing. “I’m sorry. I probably just sound mental.”

Her face relaxed. She turned to the window. “No. I get it,” she said, sounding surprised. “I mean, it’s not poetry or anything, but I—make stuff.”

“Really? Like what?”

She indicated the window display.

He looked back at her, delighted. “That was you?” She nodded, that smile still playing around her mouth. “No way. I mean—that’s the reason I came in here.”

“Of course,” she said with strange brightness. “Because of all the cafés in all of Cambridge in the blessèd year two thousand and five, you had to come and write your poetry in the exact one I happen to be working in.”

He laughed uncertainly. She laughed back, her eyes wild. It was clear there was a joke he wasn’t getting, but he wasn’t sure if he cared. Smiling, he looked down to his notebook. He had moved his pen unconsciously, making a mark on the otherwise blank page.

“Wait.” He looked up. “How did you know I’m writing poetry?”

A flash of panic. She twisted a braid between her fingers. “You just—seemed like the type.”

“Really?” His visit to the Wren Library must have paid off: clearly, he was projecting Byron from every pore. “What makes you say that?”

She looked him up and down. “The hair.” Her fingers made achaosgesture that moved downward. “The coat that looks like you slept in it. The—I don’t even know what to say about the jumper.”

It had been a Christmas present from his auntie: hand-knitted, with a naive seascape of boats and little clouds. “Okay,” he said. “Jesus.”

“Sorry. You asked.” She said it with familiar ease, as if she had known him for years and was frankly a little exasperated with him by now. It was jarring, and inexplicable, and he didn’t entirely dislike it. “Anyway. Enjoy your coffee. I’m going to...” She made a vanishing gesture.

Before he could think of anything to say to keep her there, an older woman appeared behind the counter. “Esi,” she called. “How long has the till been out of paper?”

Esi cast a comically adrift glance at Joe, as if the question was ridiculous. “It needs paper?”

“Of course it needs paper! How else is it supposed to print receipts?” The older woman shook her head, retreating into the back office. “Honestly. You seemed so articulate when I hired you, but you don’t know the most basic things.”

Esi’s jaw clenched. “Right,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice we’d run out of dead trees to squeeze crushed-up rocks onto, so when we put the shiny tokens into the counting machine, people can take home a physical reminder of how much their coffee cost.” She marched behind the counter and picked up a battered shoulder bag. The other barista, a girl with close-cropped Afro hair and a Homerton MCR T-shirt that identified her as a postgrad student, rolled her eyes in solidarity, but Esi didn’t acknowledge it.

“Make it fast,” called the manager from the back. “And less of the attitude.”

Esi stared at the office, murder in her eyes. Then she walked out, pulling the door neatly closed.

Joe didn’t think. He shut his notebook, downed the rest of his coffee, and went after her.

She whirled on him, looking panicked. “Why are you following me?”

He stepped back. “I’m not following you. I mean—I am, but I was just...” He took a breath, began again. “I’m heading back to town, so I thought we could go together.”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “Deev.”

“What?”

“Um. I said—Good. It’s really unbelievablygood,fantastic, andbrilliantthat you of all people have decided we shouldgo together.” She looked anxiously over his shoulder. “What’s the time?”

He checked his watch. “Half twelve.”

“Lunch break,” she said under her breath. “Fine. Let’s make it quick.” She set off, keeping a few paces ahead.

He faltered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but—I get the message. I’ll leave you alone.”

She stopped. He could see the tension in her, a taut line running across her shoulders. “You didn’t do anything.” She waved a hand at herself. “I do this. Take shit out on people when it’s not their fault. It’s one of the many things wrong with me.”

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