Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

She’d come to Crete to get over a man. She had not expected to meet another one on the first day, on her beach, sharing her particular patch of sun like it was the most natural thing in the world, reading the same book she was reading with the same dog-eared copy of *Giovanni’s Room* held up against the light.

She should have been annoyed. She was, a little. Mostly she was intrigued, which was the problem.

“Good, isn’t it,” the man said, without looking up.

“Don’t talk to me,” Elena said.

“Fair.”

She read three pages. He read several more — she could tell because he was faster, which was irritating.

“Do you cry at the ending?” she asked.

“Every time,” he said.

“Good.”

She went back to her book. So did he. The sea moved. A child ran past chasing a ball. The kind of peace settled over them that only exists in the middle of other people’s noise.

His name was Petros. He was from Athens, visiting his aunt, and he’d been coming to this beach every August since he was a child. He told her this gradually, over three days, like he was parcelling it out so she’d keep coming back. She did keep coming back. She wasn’t sure if that was his fault or the beach’s.

On the second day he brought two coffees and didn’t ask, just set one in the sand beside her towel and sat down.

On the third day she brought pastries.

“You’re feeding me now,” he said.

“Don’t read into it.”

“I would never.”

He was the kind of person who listened with his whole face. She’d forgotten people like that existed. Her ex had listened the way some people read menus — scanning for anything that might affect him personally, skimming the rest. Petros asked follow-up questions. He remembered things she’d said the day before.

He remembered she’d said she was a ceramicist and on the fourth day brought her a small cup from his aunt’s shop — handmade, sea-glazed, imperfect in the beautiful way of things made by hand.

“I didn’t buy it for you,” he said. “I just thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Technically.”

She held the cup and felt something in her chest gently rearrange itself. She was not going to fall in love with a man on a beach in Crete. She had come here to recover from something like that.

“I leave Saturday,” she said.

“I leave Sunday.”

They looked at each other over the gleaming water.

“That’s four more days,” he said.

“I know what four more days is.”

“Elena.”

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything irresponsible.”

“Then what were you going to say?”

He looked at the sea. “I was going to say it’s very beautiful here.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”

On Saturday morning, she packed her bag and went to the beach one last time. He was already there, two coffees in the sand, reading their book from the beginning.

She sat down.

She opened her copy to page one.

“We have four hours until my taxi,” she said.

“We do,” he said.

They sat in the beautiful, sufficient sun and read their books side by side, and it was the most achingly complete four hours she could remember, and when the taxi came she kissed him once — just once — and got in.

He had already texted her before she reached the airport.

She smiled at her phone the entire flight home.

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So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.