Page 13 of The Words of Us

Sasha nods, grinning. “Yep. She had a whole career before she became a writer. She even recorded an album.”

I shake my head, laughing softly. “That woman was unstoppable.”

We both settle back in our chairs, taking a moment to enjoy our coffees, and there’s this quiet comfort between us, like we’ve known each other for far longer than we have. But then, Sasha grins again, mischief flashing in her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, setting her cup down with a satisfied look. “So we’re on the same page with Maya Angelou. But what about prose? Tell me you’re not one of those people who’s obsessed with James Joyce.”

I groan, rolling my eyes. “Oh god, Joyce. Don’t even get me started.Ulyssesis like the literary equivalent of torture. Sure, it’s impressive, but who actually enjoys reading it?”

Sasha bursts out laughing, nodding in agreement. “Exactly! It’s like, ‘Congratulations, you read 700 pages of stream-of-consciousness nonsense. Here’s a migraine for your efforts.’”

I nearly spit out my coffee from laughing so hard that I have to set the cup down. “Yes! I’ve tried to read it three times, and every time I end up questioning my life choices.”

Sasha wipes away a tear from laughing so hard. “See? You get it. People only pretend to like it because it makes them sound smart.”

I raise my cup, still laughing. “To the truth. We’re just here for the good stories, not to impress anyone.”

Sasha grins and clinks her cup against mine. “Cheers to that.”

The conversation flows effortlessly. We start trading stories about the authors we love and the ones we just can’t stand, laughing so hard at times that the baristas shoot us a few amused glances. Sasha and I talk over each other constantly, each of us building off the other’s ideas, the banter sharp and quick but always playful.

“Okay,” I say, leaning forward with a grin. “Serious question: Austen or Brontë?”

Sasha raises an eyebrow and pretends to think deeply, tapping her chin dramatically. “Hmm, that’s a tough one. Austenis the queen of witty dialogue, but Brontë, she’s got that whole dark, brooding, Byronic hero thing going on.”

I nod, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “True. But I’ll take Mr. Darcy’s smoldering looks over Heathcliff’s tortured soul any day.”

Sasha snorts, covering her mouth to hide her laugh. “Darcy is the original ‘tall, dark, and handsome,’ but let’s be real, he’s kind of a jerk at first. Elizabeth Bennet had to do some serious emotional labor there.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “But that’s what makes it satisfying! She puts him in his place, and he actually grows as a person. Heathcliff, on the other hand, is just…irredeemable.”

Sasha concedes with a nod. “Okay, fair point. But if we’re talking dark and brooding, Brontë still wins.”

We both laugh, settling into the kind of conversation that feels like a dance—fluid, energetic, full of unexpected turns but always in rhythm. We challenge each other’s opinions, but there’s no edge to it. It’s all in good fun, and every time Sasha counters one of my points, I can’t help but admire her quick wit.

Time passes without us noticing, the light outside shifting from late afternoon to evening. It is a good thing I left Ken manning the desk. He is closer to eighty than he would ever admit, but he happily covers the counter when I need a break.

The coffee shop has grown quieter now that most of the customers are gone, and the baristas are starting to clean up around us. But Sasha and I are still locked in conversation, our cups long since emptied, but neither of us ready to end the moment.

Her green eyes are sparkling and I can’t tear my gaze away from them.

I look at my watch and let out a soft laugh. “We’ve been here for hours. I think the baristas are ready to kick us out.”

Sasha chuckles, glancing around the nearly empty shop. “Yeah, I think we might’ve overstayed our welcome. But this was really fun.”

I smile, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. “It was. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation like this.”

Sasha looks at me, her eyes softening for just a moment, and then she grins again. “Well, you better get used to it because I’ve got a lot more opinions to share.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m looking forward to it.”

As we stand and gather our things, there’s a quiet understanding between us. This isn’t the end of our conversation; it’s just the beginning. And I can’t help but feel excited about what’s to come.

We walk to the door, still talking and laughing, and for the first time in a long while, I feel like I’ve found something special.

As we step out into the cool evening air, the playful banter between us begins to taper off, replaced by a sudden, quiet awareness of the moment. The sounds of the city hum around us—distant streetcars clattering, a soft breeze rustling through the nearby trees, and the occasional laughter of people passing by—but it all feels muted. Like the world has faded into the background, leaving just the two of us standing there, inches apart.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, feeling the familiar awkwardness creep in as the conversation lulls. This is the part I’m never good at: the ending. I don’t know if I should hug her, shake her hand, or just wave awkwardly and make a quick escape. My mind starts to race through all the possibilities, and suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of how close we’re standing.

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