Shared Table

Every table in the café was taken except half of hers. The man with the dripping umbrella asked, apologetically, if she minded. Selin did mind, slightly. She had a report to read before her train. She said of course not.

He ordered the lemon cake and then offered her half of it because, he said, it was too large and he had no self-control. She took a forkful to be polite. It was very good cake.

His name was Arash. He was in town for a conference about bridges, which he described with such enthusiasm that she found herself asking questions. She told him about her report, which was about drainage, and he was so genuinely interested that she laughed out loud.

The rain hammered the window. The report stayed in her bag. At some point she realised that their knees were touching under the small table and that neither of them had moved away.

'My train is in forty minutes,' she said.

'There's another one at nine,' Arash said. He had checked. She liked him a great deal for that.

His hotel was across the square. They ran through the rain under his umbrella, which was far too small for two, and arrived in the lobby soaked and grinning. In the lift he kissed her, a little hesitantly at first, then not hesitantly at all.

She caught the nine o'clock train with her hair still damp and the taste of lemon on her lips. On the platform, she read his message: Thank you for sharing the table.

She wrote back: Next time, order two slices.