Slender fingers wrapped around a warm mug, eyes
scouring the coffee shop for an empty table, she weaves
through the crowd. Deftly, silently–ribbon slicing through 
air. It’s warm, heat radiating from bodies like plumes of
smoke, or perhaps more like latte-scented steam. 

               No vacancy.

Lips quirk to one side, and a slightly irritated sigh
escapes her. Lydia draws to the table she favours,
the one by the window. It’s occupied, but drink in
hand, she has little choice. 

             "—Hi.“

Her grin is apologetic, and she’s thrumming ner-
vously as her eyes sweep over the person taking
up her usual spot. 
   
            "I was wondering if that seat is occupied.” She motions
             to the empty chair across from them. “Every other tab-
             le is full so…”