“Um, let me get my laptop,” I mutter.
She walks over to my spot with me and watches as I unplug everything. “You have a nice little setup here,” she observes.
“Yeah,” I agree with a laugh. “I do as much work as I can at home, then I go out to libraries or coffee shops, anywhere I can sit down for a few hours uninterrupted.”
“Am I interrupting you?” she teases.
“No,” I argue quickly. “This is good. I’ve been working all day.”
“Is the bar really that hard?” She asks.
“I’ll let you know in a few months,” I respond.
“So why didn’t you go to your university library?” She wonders as we step outside into the noon sun.
“I go there too,” I say. “Anywhere that has tables and wi-fi.”
“What a life,” she replies.
“So, what about you?” I ask, following as she turns left down the sidewalk toward the coffee shop a block away. “What are you researching?”
“Families in the area,” she says.
“Like who?” I press, more interested in the way the light shines on her hair than what she’s saying.
“People who came to this country from other places,” she replies vaguely.
“Like immigrants?” I guess.
“Yeah, like immigrants,” she confirms.
“Is it genealogical research?” I wonder.
“Something like that,” she agrees, not allowing me to pin her down. “Do you want to go to Cuppa Joe or the Brew Hut?”
“Cuppa Joe,” I answer, pointing out the coffee shop right in front of us. “Brew Hut has a strange ambiance. I once saw a woman reading someone’s fortune in there.”
“You don’t believe in that kind of stuff?” Sofia asks.
“No,” I respond quickly. “Do you?”
“No,” she answers. “Cuppa Joe it is.”
She pushes her way through the glass doors at the entrance and gets in line behind two blue-haired old ladies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of my father’s employees stop at the front door. He turns his back to me, taking out his phone. I know he’s going to stay there as long as I’m in the coffee shop. It’s not always the same guys, but someone is always following me, making sure I’m safe.
I wonder if Sofia has noticed, but it doesn’t appear so. She looks completely oblivious to the guy who could bust kneecaps hovering on the street outside. I hope I don’t have to explain it. I don’t want anything to ruin my chances of a second date. If this coffee break can even be counted as a first date.
“So, what are your career plans?” I ask just to make conversation.
“I’d like to be a writer,” she says.
“A writer?” I ask, surprised. “I always thought writers were alcoholic old men in Paris.”
She laughs, and I can tell it’s genuine. Her whole face lights up, and some of the mystery surrounding her dissolves. “I’m not a poet,” she claims.
“So, what kind of writing?” I wonder.
“Articles, documentaries, journals, that kind of thing,” she says. It’s her turn to order, and the barista gives her a smile. “I’ll take a small skinny latte.”
