She grimaces, turning her nose up in disgust. “Brandon swears by his Keurig, but I like to prepare my coffee the old-fashioned way.” She opens a cupboard: One shelf is crammed with mugs, the middle shelf houses K-Cups organized by flavor, and the top shelf holds a dozen red boxes labeled “Pilão.”

“What are those?” I say, pointing to the boxes.

“That’s the coffee my mother and tias sell at Rio de Wheaton.”

“The place they’ve been running since 2003. You and your cousins did homework there after school.”

She raises a brow. “I see someone’s been studying the Solange Dossier.”

“I have.”

Gleaned a lot from it too: a year abroad in Argentina during her senior year; a stint as a census field worker on both coasts after college; next, two years at Building Futures; then, graduate school and this DC placement to fulfill her fellowship. In that same time, I’ve had one and only one job—as an associate at Olney & Henderson. Some people plant roots; others sprinkle seeds and let others tend to the growth. Solange seems to be in tune enough with herself to know she’s more suited to the latter. I admire that about her.

“Well, if you’ve been a diligent student,” Solange says, “you also know my mom and tias are my suppliers for just about any Brazilian product I want.” She closes the cupboard. “But for your purposes, the key is this: I like my coffee strong. Black. No sugar. If we’re at dinner and you pour creamer into my cup, I won’t drink it.”

“That’s important,” I say, pretending to jot that tidbit in a pad. “And just so you know, I like mine sticky and sweet. The more caramel drizzle, the better.”

She stares at my lips, as if she’s having trouble processing my words, so I wave a hand in front of her face, and the movement appears to clear the mental fog. She blinks twice, then shakes out her arms and says, “Sounds like a cinnamon roll, not a beverage.”

“Okay, you know what? Your animosity for my coffee preferences is getting out of hand. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to yuck someone’s yum?”

“I’m a fan of swallowing, so no. Plenty of people seem to enjoy when I yuck their yum, actually.”

“Are we talking about the same thing?”

“Probably not,” she says, holding back a smile.

I jam my thumbs into the front pockets of my jeans. Jesus, my head’s spinning. “Honestly, I can’t keep up with your brain. Just when I think our conversation’s headed in one direction, you take a sharp turn.”

“It requires some getting used to, I’ll give you that.” She tilts her head and studies me. As if she’s sizing me up. Then she snaps her fingers. “I have an idea! We should go out. To a bar.”