"I could never write a book."
"Do you live around here?"
"My mother has a place on Wilder Avenue."
"Not far from me—on Liholiho." She smiled her unsettling smile and began drawing. Their conversations were short; each felt the other's need for privacy. The back tables of the coffee shop became their studio for an hour or two nearly every morning. Gradually, Joe saw that Rhiannon was beautiful. She had no spectacular features; it was the whole combo working together that was beautiful—hair, eyes, mouth, clear skin, proud compact walk. Feeling flickered on her face like firelight. She was stubborn; Joe could see that. But, at the same time, she laughed at herself. They were a lot alike, and she knew it. That was why her smile troubled him—to deny her was to deny himself.
The coffee shop was cheerful in the early morning. Many of the customers were young and worked in the surrounding shops. Rhiannon joked with them but maintained a friendly distance. Once, a young man came over to her table and said, "I've been watching you draw." He was important about it, as though he were a well-known judge of drawing.
"Yes," she said.
"Hobby? Or are you a student or a professional or something?"
"Hobby," she said and went back to work. The judge bent over her table.
"Nice," he said.
Rhiannon said nothing, and he retreated. Joe avoided her eyes. He could feel her glance, and he was starting to grin.