Vivyan
The café Alan chose was the kind of place that tried very hard to look effortless.
Exposed brick that had been artfully distressed. Mismatched chairs in a shade of green nobody would admit they'd bought on purpose. A chalkboard menu in handwriting nobody could actually read, and a barista with an immaculate man bun who treated each espresso like a minor religious rite. Fairy lights were strung along the ceiling beams, absurdly cheerful against a gray afternoon. The air smelled of burnt sugar and wet wool. Someone had left a copy of the morning paper folded on the windowsill, a half-finished crossword grinning up from its back page.
I arrived ten minutes early so I could choose my seat.
Back corner, facing the door, a small round table with a view of the entire room and a wall at
