When I look up again, Cecelia and Lachelle are both watching me, their expressions twinned in confusion, probably at my uncharacteristic quiet. They’re good friends, the two of them—about five or so years ago Lachelle took one of Cecelia’s calligraphy classes, and Lachelle was such a quick study that now they collaborate often. But they also hang out—they’re both married, both have kids, though Lachelle’s are younger than Cecelia’s teenagers. Together they have what I think of as the general magic of calligraphers—a smooth confidence, a steadiness, the same quality that allows them to set an ink-dipped nib to a page and create something beautiful. No stopping the stroke, no pauses to erase and try again.

I feel another gripping pain of loneliness, of longing. I came here this afternoon for company, for respite from the swoosh. But even small talk seems risky—I can’t really talk about Reid without explaining how I know him, which would be disastrous. I’m not confident enough at the moment to talk about my deadline, and I’m embarrassed to tell them about my block.

“I’m totally sure,” I say lightly.

Cecelia shrugs, pulls out the chair that’s next to Lachelle. “I’ll hang on to it anyway. Just in case.”

“She’ll change her mind,” Lachelle says, looking up at me and smiling, giving me a teasing wink. “She’s distracted by this date she’s got.”

Cecelia pauses, mid-sit, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, a date? That’s nice!”

“That’s nice” is what married people always say when they find out you have a date. As though a good eighty-six percent of dates in this city don’t end with you considering a blood pact with yourself to give up men in general.

“It is not a date.” This is the most conviction I have put into any sentence since I’ve arrived here. Cecelia, sitting now, nudges Lachelle with her elbow, and they both smile at me. I roll my eyes genially, check my phone. I’ll still make it on time, but I don’t feel any less nervous than when I showed up here. “I’ll take the Tombow,” I tell Cecelia, dropping it in my bag. “Put it on my account?”

“Sure,” says Cecelia, but she’s distracted now, reaching for a fresh sheet of the paper Lachelle’s been using.

“I’ll see you guys,” I say, moving around the table.

“Meg.” Lachelle’s voice stops me as I’m about to cross into the front part of the shop. “Someone knows where you’re going, right?”