I walked the few meters from your office to Kaffebrenneriet on the corner of Parkveien and Bogstadveien, ordered a cortado and sat in the corner by the large windows, my back to the counter. It was loud in there, the baristas banging the portafilters against the countertops to empty the espresso grits, a steady chatter of the afternoon coffee crowd from nearby offices, and the occasional blue tram rambling past outside, heading uptown. I saw a flash of orange pass by the window as I raised the cortado to my nostrils, drawing its perfect bitter and burned scent into me, then the door opened, bringing a cool draft. Then I heard your voice.

A double tall white Americano, you said. I turned my head slowly, to double-check that it really was you. You stood, unaware, scrolling on your phone, waiting. When your coffee was ready you flashed a quick smile at the barista and it made me irrationally angry for a moment, watching you smile at someone as inconsequential as a random café worker when I was used to having your undivided attention. Your smile also prompted another wave of that liquid heat in my stomach. This was back when I sometimes felt confused by overwhelming attraction to you.

You took your coffee to go, and before I knew it, I’d left my cortado half-drunk on the narrow window table and scrambled after you out onto the street, struggling to get my jacket on. It was only March and the air was crisp, but the sky was a deep indigo blue and the days were getting longer. The promise of spring had changed the atmosphere of the town and even the facial expressions of the people. You walked slowly up Bogstadveien, easy to spot in your orange parka, and I hung back at a little distance, yet close enough to observe you. You stopped to look in a few windows, sipping at your coffee, and several times you checked your phone. About halfway up Bogstadveien, you crossed over to the other side. I followed. You turned down Rosenborggata, a quiet residential street, and I wondered whether it was where you lived – I didn’t know anything about you back then. I hovered at the corner of the main street, pretending to look at my phone, and watched you approach a white, turn-of-the-century apartment building.