"I just saw the sort of words you write with your own hands. I missed a great deal." Or rather, she could only guess at it, but her wishful guessing had been terribly close to reality.

Her cup is near finished, and she wonders now if she should do as he did and order another, or rather, if she ought to wait until he, too, is done, so that she might twist their talk into further steps. The gods know she would go on something as ordinary and, usually, boring as a walk to spend just a tad more time with him.

This is not brought on by some ridiculous and sappy feeling, of course: she just believes that more time spent is what she needs to see an opening to grab him by the collar to kiss him. "There's an exhibition at the art gallery," and she could not tell by which artist it is, or what is being displayed, not even if her life depended on it. "If you're not too busy after this?"