3:00 PM. Thursday following the long drag of winter break that Princeton insists on spoiling its students with. Otherwise known as The Opportune Moment to obtain a heart-warming, spirit-energising, soul-shattering beverage. Otherwise known as shelling out your meagre minimum-wages at Small World Coffee for a black Americano when you could have scouted out any of the million other free machines on campus that might do the trick too. But no, the journey to Beyond makes it all worth it. Especially when it’s raining.

Noting the day’s patrons. It’s less crowded than usual—the rain having, perhaps, managed to scare off the least brave. Unassuming characters, all of them, including the young fellow sitting alone at a table, reading, not far from the cash register. His features are pale—icy, even. He’d probably tell you that his ancestors come from Northern Europe, passing it off with a nonchalant shrug. He’s meticulously sipping a cappuccino—what may appear initially as a sophisticated selection but is likely indicative of deeper problems (e.g. control freak, wages psychological warfare on roommate, actually enjoys the consumption of tinned fish and mushrooms).

A closer inspection confirms prior hypothesis. There are two books on the table. One lies open, helpless victim to the relentless stroking of said character’s finger running the width of the page. Left to right, left to right. Line after line to ensure no one gets lost. The other is closed and is positioned at an angle that surely confirms he wants you to read its title. How To Be Danish. Patrick Kingsley. Of course. It’s only these kinds of people that would dare make the trek up Witherspoon on such a day. It’s in his blood. The Danish are used to mild weather and frequent rainfall throughout the year.

He looks up, casting a piercing squint through his thin-framed spectacles to survey his surroundings. Danish people are known to be keen observers. They’ll smell something rotten from a kilometre away. He’s probably realising that he’s the only Dane here. The book is both homage and signal. I may look unremarkable but I am different. I read books about other cultures. I am culture. I am COUNTERCULTURE.

In short, he’s a reader. Worse still–a writer. The most blasphemous of professions. He probably makes his idea of a living off it. In the unpaid sense. He looks not unlike the editor of that one publication. Self-branded alternative. Occasionally actually delivers the magazine on a weekly basis. Yes, it could very well be him. Rumour has it he landed the job because he was the only applicant to have prior experience with managing a Jersey Mike’s for hours while the oven was broken. That, or diversity pick. So it goes.

I sit down next to him.

I felt fortunate to have found a seat by the window. The patter of heavy rain against glass always puts me into a reading lull, and the conditions today were optimal: showers forecasted all day long, nature’s own white noise machine. On the table in front of me I had my usual cappuccino—foam already dissolving into abstract expressionism—and my reading for tomorrow’s class. It was still early enough in the semester when I could afford spending hours at Small World, basking in the illusion that I was a serious academic rather than a procrastinator who mostly came for the ambiance, and in the hope that I might run into someone I know.

My reading had a long, uncontested run, until I heard a click from the front door that piqued my interest unlike the ones prior. It was sharper, more deliberate, like someone had rehearsed this entrance.

She drifted past me in careful steps so as not to disturb anyone’s concentration and then took her spot in line. If I hadn’t recognized her, I might have dismissed her as just another casual customer, who, for all I was concerned, was there to embellish my view of the cafe. But hiding behind the seemingly innocent face and babushka demeanor is someone who could probably convince you that your entire worldview is fundamentally flawed using nothing but a well-timed smile and pointed rhetorical questions. She’s the type who reads Dostoyevsky in the original Russian for fun and can spot a poorly constructed sentence like some sort of grammar bloodhound. And what aggression she lacks in appearance she makes up in her words, with a thesaurus inscribed along the folds of her brain. While she has the command to weaponize her words, she often chooses not to. That is, of course, except when during her editorial reign of a highly esteemed publication when she’d assault members with appreciation to fill the verbatim page. Be it something overheard, a text message, or a joke made up, she’d squeeze the verbatim right out of you. It seems that even when ordering her coffee she goes heavy-handed with gratitude–and far too much I’d say.

She stepped cautiously to the side while waiting for her order, a black Americano–AKA a glorified watered-down espresso to satisfy a tongue that’s suspicious of all peculiar textures and tastes.

I’d tell you what she’s called, honestly, but the sounds get all lodged in my teeth! Her last name of repeating sh’s and z’s and alternating vowels is arranged in a linguistic obstacle course that is decidedly not suited for my English tongue. I wonder if she has noticed that in every interaction we’ve had, I avoid saying it at all costs and opt for only her first name. She grabbed her coffee and sat down next to me.