“Do you mind?” he asked, and gestured to the empty chair beside her. There were plenty of empty seats around her, and Josie wished she could tell him to find another seat. She would need to be pleasant, though, could hear Mary’s brusque “Josie!” just thinking about what she would like to say, so she shook her head.

“Thank you,” he said, and placed his paper on the table. “Just need to get some sugar.”

She watched him wind his way around the empty tables and chairs to the coffee bar. Once there, he poured four packets of sugar into his coffee. He emptied one, then stirred, emptied another, then stirred again. His actions were polished and slow, as if the world were waiting for him to perfect his latte. She watched him until he finally turned, and then looked quickly down at her book.

“There we go,” he said, and sat down.

She nodded and picked up her book. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she thought he would try, and she supposed she would have to be cordial. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and opened the paper on his lap. It was a foreign paper—she could tell by the size and the brightly colored pictures on the front—and she tried to peek at the headings beneath his large dark hands without being noticed.

“Indian Express,” he said.

She looked quickly back at her book. “Ah, right.”

“And you’re reading?” he asked.

“Oh.” She faltered. “I’m just looking at pictures right now.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask more. She definitely didn’t want to discuss her work.

“Pictures?” He looked at her and waited for her to go on.

“Of coffins.”

He waited for more.

“Ghanaian coffins, but they’re not really coffins.” She paused. “I mean, they don’t look like coffins.”

“Some light afternoon reading?” He grinned.

“Ha-ha,” she said.

“May I see?” he asked.

She handed him the book, and he flipped slowly through the pages. It seemed to take an interminable amount of time, and Josie had to bite the tip of her tongue to keep from demanding it back.

“People do all kinds of strange things with death,” he said, and finally handed her the book. “In Madagascar the Sakalava decorated their tombs with carvings of men and women engaged in compromising positions.” He kept hold of the book for a moment and grinned at her. It was a wicked grin, and she felt her heart contract.

“Quite something,” he said, and released the book.