She had asked his first name, and given her own – though she never asked for his surname, nor did he strike her as the sort of man who would return home and use an online search engine of his choice to find hers out. The man writes his poetry into a notebook, for crying out loud, he is more likely than not the only person she sees on a regular basis who might be honestly surprised at the numbers on her instagram account.

No sooner has she thought the word 'notebook' and it is pushed toward her, a small smile still somewhere on his features, and she touches the cover as though to ask if he is certain. Not that she can voice the question, because she does not wish to be told no now. In some way, she feels as if she needs to know, as if it is vital to catch a glimpse of his mind when she has spent so long on watching, on tidbits of conversation. His smile is not enough to drive that shroud of darkness from him, but her own is all the light in the room. "It would not be real if it were overly polished."

The polishing sounds too much like censoring, cutting away at truths. She is gentle with his prized possession, opens the notebook carefully for a first, ravenous reading. She will only look up again – blinking, as if resurfacing – when the waitress comes with their orders.