Julian woke up as he heard the annoying buzzing sound. He picked up his phone from the concrete floor, quickly skipped the notifications with his thumb, and went straight to his emails. It was the only media he was willing to use: for work, for his therapist, with Eleonore, and with his father, as he would sometimes write to him, inquiring how he was doing in his new life, sending him pictures of his stepsisters . . .

They had his email address and had been instructed by him to not share it with anyone. Everyone else had his social media account, which he never checked, and his phone number, which he barely answered.

The email he had just received was from Karim. He had sent him a briefing from their last meeting. He also saw a missed call from Eleonore. He immediately texted her that he would call her back in the afternoon.

“First time I’ve seen you looking at your phone. I already showered; you can go next. There is a toothbrush and a towel on the sink,” the short-haired girl spoke as she picked up one of the two sphynx cats and petted it. She had a navy towel wrapped around her body, revealing her beautiful legs.

Behind her, on the wall, a framed poster of a band from the 80s. It was a nice touch that matched the blue walls of her room. In the corner, near her white closet, he saw an amp. He did not dare ask if it was hers or if it belonged to someone else.

“Thanks, Neliah . . . What are you doing today?”

“Saturday is usually my only day off, so . . . I’m attending a lecture in a bookshop, and then I will go buy some food, cook, play my bass, read a book, then go to sleep.”

“You work on Sundays?” He raised an eyebrow, his fingers twisting one of the three rings he always wore on the same hand. Two of them used to belong to his mother, and the third one was a gift from Eleonore. He never took them off. Even during sex.

“I must complete that physical model for Distrct8Deco, remember?”

“Sure . . . so . . . at what time is that lecture thing?” He sat down with the black sheet covering his lowest part.

“3 p.m.”

“10:12 now . . . We could go get some food; I’ll make you breakfast.”

She seemed very surprised by the sudden offer.

“You don’t have to. I was just thinking of . . . grabbing brunch nearby.”

“Then, can I invite you to my favourite brunch place, and you can tell me what this lecture is about?”

“Sure . . . It’s funny.” She tilted her head to the side, a smile on her sexy lips.

“What?”

“Your voice sounds very different from . . . you know, while we were doing it,” she added, laughing.

At this moment, he did not need a mirror to guess how red his ears were turning. He felt the heat from it.

After brunch, they ended up attending the lecture together, which took place in a small but cozy independent bookshop named Simone & Bovoir, in the same French area of the town, which had a very bohemian reputation with its youthful vibe that offered a variety of vintage boutiques, restaurants, cafés, bars, bakeries, and trendy shops. It was one of the hippest areas of Nitch City.

Afterward, they walked around, grabbed some coffees and croissants, and went to sit on the grass next to a canal. They found a quiet spot, a bit far from the others who had gathered to enjoy the weather and the ducks floating in the river. Neliah insisted on paying for their coffees and croissants. He wouldn’t have minded, but she probably felt that she had to after he’d paid for their brunch and had also bought her a book from Simone & Bovoir.

While he had enjoyed the whole lecture, she’d felt bored after a while. The bookshop had invited a historian to present one of his works, which discussed his knowledge about Black culture in the 60s all around the world. From politics to music and fashion, she had been ready to leave as soon as he’d finished mentioning the Civil Rights Movement, but Julian had insisted on staying until the end. In exchange, he’d offered to buy her a book of her choice. She had picked a bio about Jimi Hendrix, while he’d bought himself a vinyl of Chet Baker and one of the historian’s books, signed by the latter.

“You’re such a hipster. Who even listens to vinyl anymore?” she teased him.

“Not to brag, but people with elevated musical tastes still do. Also, I’m much closer to a beatnik than a hipster.”

“Let me guess: On the Road is what inspired you to leave your life of comfort in New York and travel?”

“It’s a classic.”

“320 pages later, and I felt bored to death. I never understood the hype around the Beat Generation.”

“The jazz, the poetry, the existential meaning of the literature . . .”

“The misogyny of it all,” she sarcastically replied with a mocking smile.

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you that. They were not perfect, but their contribution to literature is what others, such as Miles Davis or Charlie Parker, did for jazz. In fact, Kerouac called himself a jazz poet. His idea of making something new by fusing music and literature was pure genius!”

She feigned yawning as she listened to him. “In case you did not know, I am a musician. I play both the guitar and the bass. Quite impressive, I know!” she bragged.

“Well . . . I play both the piano and the saxophone . . . I also published a book, and I collect records. Does that make me more of a hipster in your eyes?”

They both laughed at his comment.

“Well, you take soy milk in your coffee.”

“Coming from the vegan girl who only eats plants and rocks.”

She chuckled and gently pushed his chest. “I don’t eat rocks,” she said, pouting.

“What about that clay thing you ate before we left your flat?”

“The Kalaba? It’s an African snack. It’s part of my heritage. We actually eat it during our periods, as it reduces the cramps. It also tastes good. A very . . . earthy taste. A bit like wine.”

“You eat rocks, and I’m the hipster one? No comment!” he joked, and she chuckled even more.

“I will make you taste some next time we hang out.”

“So there will be . . . a next time. Good to know.” He then paused, not too sure why he had said that.

She did not seem to mind, as he watched her smile as she took a bite of her croissant. He imitated her, and they ate in silence.

He then noticed something in her hair, a red leaf. He hesitated to remove it, as that would involve touching her without her consent.

“You have something stuck in your hair,” he said, pointing at her head.

“Really?” She petted herself and finally removed it. “Thanks. I used to have longer hair, and I’d never get anything stuck in it, but oddly, since I cut it, I cannot count the number of times I bring random things back home. Short hair catches everything in the air,” she concluded.

“I would have expected the opposite.”

“Tell me about it. By the way, this coffee is so good. Maybe I should go back and get some of their beans.”

“You like hazelnuts?”

“A lot.”

“Are you more into Robusta or Excelsa type of beans?” he asked with a fake serious expression, already expecting her reaction.

She did not disappoint him and seemed extremely confused. “What?”

He could not help but laugh. “Just teasing you, sorry. Most people are only familiar with the Arabica beans. Just teasing you.”

“You little shit . . .”

“Hey, as a hipster from New York, I gotta represent!” he said with what seemed to be an exaggerated New Yorker accent.

They both laughed and finished their coffee in silence, which he highly appreciated. He liked how they were able to have moments of silence without being awkward. She was different from all the girls he had been with since he’d moved to town.

“Why did you wait for your friend to leave to ask for my number?” she suddenly asked.

He sighed before answering. “In case you said no . . . If I can be truly honest with you, I usually wait for girls to approach me . . . but with you, it felt different. I just really wanted to see you again.”

She nodded and seemed to be very pleased with his honest answer. “By the way, Lucas, your intern, contacted me with all the details about the types of materials to use. He even sent me a gift card from the craft store. Very thoughtful.”

“Lucas . . . He’s a good kid. A bit too energetic for my liking, but . . . he does a good job,” he admitted, despite not being too fond of the twenty-year-old impulsive young man.

“He’s cute.”

Her comment made him raise an eyebrow. “That’s your type? Really?”

“Jealous much?” she asked, amused.

“Not a bit!” he scoffed.

“I’m just joking. I never date younger than me.”

Good to know, he thought, mentally doing a happy dance. “So why did you cut your hair? Was it to show off your tattoo?”

To his surprise, he noticed how his innocent question brought a darker expression to her face. It was not due to the sky getting grayer or the weather turning colder. She lowered her head, and he immediately regretted asking that question.

“Years ago, I used to take a lot of substances . . . I overdosed one night and almost did not make it. I was going through a lot and did the most common thing we do in moments like these . . . I chopped my hair off. Immediately regretted it because I looked insane. But then, a hairdresser fixed the cut, and since then, I have been rocking the pixie haircut. Saves a lot of time in the morning when I shower,” she added with a smile, and he found her beautiful.

She had a lot of depth to her. The fact that she was willing to share such a personal story made her more interesting in Julian’s eyes. He did not regret it—swallowing both his pride and fear in order to ask for her phone number that time at the clinic.

Later on, he had invited her for dinner. They had mostly talked about their jobs, holding back but somehow feeling pulled to each other by an invisible force.

They had made love that night . . . He had not thought of using a condom, which was very dumb of him, but she had. They had done it twice the same night, and the second time, he had really felt like their souls were merging. It had not felt like a one-night stand with someone he barely knew. Her body had not felt foreign to him.

Originally, he had planned to leave as soon as they were done. He usually did. This time had been different, and he had no idea why. She had not kicked him out, so he had stayed. They had slept in each other’s arms. They barely knew each other. It was an odd situation. But he did not mind, as he liked being around her. The warm feeling of her body comforted him.

“The short hair suits you. You look cool.”

“I know, right? At least I am not trying so hard to be as cool as James Dean.”

“You’re just jealous because you could never reach my swagger level. I did not choose this life.”

“Such a hipster thing to say. I cannot with people like you!”

“You have to give me points for not taking pictures of our food or publishing a story about hanging out at an indie bookstore.”

“Oh, I am so different from everyone else. Social media represents the downfall of our generation . . . so pretentious,” she concluded, grinning at him.

“Look, next time, I’ll bring my 35-millimetre vintage camera.” He did not have to wait for her reaction; she burst out laughing.

“Julian, you are hilarious. If you’re ever looking for a side hustle, I’m telling you, you were born to be a comedian.” She laughed as she rubbed her arms after feeling a breeze of fresh air.

“Thank you. I’ll think about it. For now, let’s go grab you these Arabica beans before the shop closes.” He removed his woolen coat and placed it on her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she said, surprised by his gesture.

He only nodded before picking up their empty cups from the grass. It was almost 5 p.m., and he’d never expected to stay out this late. He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket; it was probably the boys waiting for him.