Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

Her daughter fell asleep on the train home from the school trip and Fia sat beside her in the window seat watching the city blur past and thought: this is the best thing. This specifically. This warm weight against my shoulder, this smell of sunscreen and someone else’s snacks, this small life that chose me somehow.

And then the man across the aisle smiled at her — not at her daughter, not at the sweet tableau, but at her — and she felt something she hadn’t felt in two years, which was the specific awareness of being seen as a person and not just a parent.

She looked away. She looked back. He was reading again.

He was dark-haired and wore the kind of glasses that suggested he’d been reading since childhood. He had a takeaway coffee and a novel and the relaxed posture of someone who took trains regularly and had made peace with them.

Maya stirred against her shoulder.

“Mama?”

“We’re nearly home. Go back to sleep.”

Maya subsided. The man looked up.

“She’s brilliant,” he said quietly, not wanting to wake her. “My niece does the same thing. All-or-nothing with consciousness.”

“They have no regulation,” Fia said, also quietly. “Asleep or completely present. Nothing in between.”

“I envy them.”

“Me too, actually.”

He smiled again. She noticed his hands — a ring on the wrong finger, which was her automatic check, old habit. There was none.

“Good trip?” he asked.

“I was a chaperone. Fourteen seven-year-olds at a nature museum. There were casualties.”

“Of what kind?”

“One child ate something unidentified from the outdoor exhibit. One fell in a pond. One cried for twenty minutes because a butterfly landed on her.”

“Happy tears or unhappy?”

“Happy. Which made it both more beautiful and more challenging.”

He was trying not to laugh and not succeeding. She found she didn’t mind.

“I’m Fia,” she said.

“Eli.”

“Do you take this line often?”

“Every day. I work near the museum, actually. Do you?”

“Once a year, apparently. Chaperone duty.”

His stop was announced. He started to gather his things. She felt the familiar calculation — the one she made every time, the brief weighing of what she had room for and what the risk was and whether it was fair to Maya or to herself or to anyone at all.

She was so tired of that calculation.

“Eli,” she said.

He looked up. He was half-standing.

“There’s a coffee place at the next stop,” she said. “If you ever want to hear about seven-year-olds and unidentified outdoor matter. Over coffee. When it’s — relevant.”

He looked at her. He looked at Maya, still sleeping. He looked back.

“Are you free Saturday morning?” he asked.

“Saturday Maya is with her dad.”

“Saturday morning,” he said. “Coffee.”

“Coffee,” she said.

He got off at his stop.

Maya slept.

Fia sat with a small, cautious, real feeling in her chest and decided she was going to be brave enough to let it be there.

Saturday. Coffee.

She hadn’t asked for much in a long time. It felt like the right amount to start with.

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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.