‘It’s okay.’ I gave him another smile. ‘I asked.’

He looked at me. ‘I’m not sure why I told you all that.’

I blinked, trying to bring myself back, bring everything back. ‘It’s because I serve you drinks,’ I said eventually.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’

‘It is.’ I took another drag. ‘I read this study once. People are more likely to form attachments with service staff who serve them drinks than with anyone else. They find us trustworthy and nurturing.’

He laughed.

‘It’s true. Bartenders mostly, but baristas too. And I’m both, so …’

‘Someone did a study on this?’

‘Yeah. I read it …’ I hesitated. At work. Before. ‘Ages ago.’

He looked quizzical, and I went on.

‘Take my best friend. She’s been with the same guy for, not nine years, but at least five.’ I felt a stab of guilt. ‘But still, whenever we find a new coffee place she always gets a crush on the barista and tries to set me up with him.’ Or she used to, I thought.

‘And does it work?’ His eyebrow came up again. ‘Or are you immune?’

‘Oh,’ I shook my head. ‘I’m not really into …’ I trailed off, suddenly awkward.

‘What? Baristas?’

‘No.’ I took a drag, stubbed out the last of the cigarette. ‘Well, them too.’

He smiled, waiting.

‘Relationships. All that stuff. I don’t know.’ I looked past him. ‘I’ve never really been in one,’ I said, before I could catch the words, repress them.

His eyes widened, his expression landing somewhere between confusion and shock. ‘Really?’

I nodded.

‘Never?’

‘I’ve dated, obviously.’ I laughed. ‘I used to date a lot. Too much. I’ve had flings and things.’

Things. Drunken hook-ups and friends-with-benefits situations that petered off into weird awkward miscommunications; endless message chains with men who were so far out of my league that nobody could be surprised when it didn’t work out; hours spent trawling dating apps with Lina looking over my shoulder telling me I was being too picky, too careful, asking what was wrong with this one and that one and me feeling like she was really asking what was wrong with me.

‘But no grand romances. No honey, I’m home or roses for Valentine’s Day. It’s just not my thing.’

There was nothing wrong with me, nothing wrong with not believing in fairytales or happily-ever-afters; nothing wrong with not needing anyone else to make you happy. I was just being careful.

The thought startled me, unsettled me. I sat forward, reached for my hair and pulled out the elastic, sliding it onto my wrist and gathering all the hair back again, twisting and rolling and finally knotting it. His eyes followed my hands, his expression unreadable.