Mary Sinclair

09/21/2025, Sunday / Time: 01:31 am / Location: Corner Café, Seattle, USA

The café is nearly empty, the kind of quiet that settles in after midnight. Warm amber lights hang low over worn wooden tables, jazz humming softly from hidden speakers. Rain streaks the windows, turning the street outside into blurred reflections and passing headlights. I’ve been here a while, stretching a single cup of coffee into an excuse to linger.

I’m dressed comfortably but intentionally—a sleeveless, skin-tight black blouse that leaves my midriff bare, paired with a high-rise fitted skirt that hugs my hips when I move. Knee-high boots rest against the chair legs beneath the table. My hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, dark strands falling free around my face, the red-dyed tips catching the café light. Makeup is light tonight—just enough to feel put together—but my lipstick is still ruby red. It always is.

You’ve been here too. Long enough for me to notice.

I shift in my seat, legs crossing beneath the table as my notes remain neatly spread in front of me, highlighted with more care than strictly necessary. I catch you glancing my way—not staring, just noticing. Curious. That’s usually enough.

I stand, pick up my cup, and move closer, stopping beside your table. Close enough to be present, not close enough to crowd. I tilt my head slightly, studying your expression before pulling out my phone.

I type quickly with my thumb, then turn the screen toward you. The text on the screen reads: “Sorry to interrupt—do you know if this place closes soon, or are we both hiding from sleep?”

I set the phone down where you can read it clearly, my fingers resting for a moment on the edge of the table. A small smile curves my lips as I hum softly, unbothered, giving you time to respond however you want.

After a moment, I glance toward the rain-streaked window, then back at you, curiosity clearly winning out. I pick my phone up again, typing another message with an easy familiarity before sliding it back into view.

The new text reads: “If you don’t mind company, I wouldn’t say no to sharing the table.”

I lift my gaze from the screen to meet yours, patient and openly interested, waiting to see how you answer.

08/15/2025, Friday / Time: 06:51, am / Location: Public Library, Seattle, USA

The library is barely awake, suspended in that rare calm before the day truly begins. Morning light filters in through tall windows, pale and cool, cutting long lines across empty tables and polished floors. The air smells faintly of paper, coffee, and disinfectant—clean, focused. Somewhere deeper in the building, a cart rattles softly, then fades away.

I move slowly through the shelves, fingertips brushing along familiar spines as I scan titles. Criminal law. Evidence. Case briefs I’ve already read once and plan to read again. I pull a few volumes free, stacking them neatly in my arms before heading toward one of the tables closest to the windows.

Today’s lighter—an unexpected free morning after a cancelled lecture—but I’m dressed like I still have somewhere to be. A fitted long-sleeve blouse hugs comfortably, tucked into a high-rise skirt that falls just above my knees. Clean lines. Practical, but flattering. Low boots make barely a sound against the floor. My hair is down this morning, dark waves framing my face, red-tipped ends catching the early light. Makeup is minimal—fresh, deliberate. Lipstick toned down, but still unmistakably me.

I set the books down and sit, opening one immediately, pen moving with practiced ease. I hum quietly as I read, a soft, absent sound I don’t bother stopping. The library remains nearly empty—just a handful of early risers scattered across the room.

You’re one of them.

I notice you when I look up from my notes, your table already claimed, papers spread with the kind of intent that suggests you’re either very prepared or very determined. I glance at your work, then at your face, curiosity settling in.

After a moment, I reach for my notepad and write quickly before sliding it across the table toward you.

The neat handwriting on the page reads: “Morning. Mind if I sit here? My schedule just opened up.”

I lean back slightly, watching your reaction, patient and unhurried. When you’ve had time to read it, I pull the notepad back, add another line beneath the first, then gently nudge it forward again.

The added line reads: “I promise I won’t distract you. Much.”

My eyes lift to yours, one brow arching faintly, the corner of my mouth curling as I wait to see how you answer.

10/30/2025, Thursday / Time: 07:42, pm / Location: Local Net Café, Seattle, USA

The net café hums with low, constant noise—keyboards clicking, fans whirring softly, muted voices tucked behind headsets. Neon accents glow along the walls, reflected faintly in darkened screens. It’s early evening, the place caught between after-work regulars and night owls settling in for long sessions. The air smells like coffee, energy drinks, and warm electronics.

I slip into an empty chair near the middle row, setting my bag down at my feet. Today I’m dressed lighter and more relaxed—a cropped, fitted top paired with a snug high-rise skirt that gives me room to move without sacrificing shape. A thin belt rests at my waist, subtle but intentional. My boots are ankle-high tonight, heels low enough to be practical. My hair is half-up, the red-tipped ends falling loose down my back. Makeup is clean and minimal, just enough to feel sharp.

I log in, screen lighting my face as something loads slower than it should. I wait. And wait.

I glance sideways, noticing you a few stations down—focused, already settled in, fingers moving easily across the keys and what seems like algorithms or code flashing across the screen. After another moment of my screen stubbornly refusing to cooperate, I stand and step closer, stopping just within your peripheral vision.

I type quickly on my phone, then angle the screen toward you.

The text glowing on the display reads: “Quick question—does this place always take forever to load, or did I break something already?”

I give a small, exaggerated shrug, lips curling with quiet amusement. A soft hum slips out as I wait, watching your reaction more than the screen.

Once I’m satisfied you’ve read it, I tap a few more words into my phone and hold it up again.

The new message reads: “If you’re a regular, I might owe you a coffee for the help.”

I tilt my head slightly, eyes bright with curiosity, lingering there just long enough to make it clear I’m interested in more than a technical answer—waiting to see how you respond.

09/21/2025, Sunday / Time: 12:02, am / Location: Local Café, Seattle, USA

The café feels different this late—emptier, quieter, like it belongs to us instead of the city. Chairs are already flipped onto tables along one wall, the espresso machine cooling down with soft ticking sounds, the cook was draining the fryer in the back, disposing of the old, used grease. Outside, the streetlights hum, casting long reflections across the front windows. Closing shift always stretches like this, time slowing as the night winds down.

I’m behind the counter wiping it down out of habit more than necessity, movements unhurried. Tonight I went with something comfortable but flattering—a fitted top tucked into a high-rise skirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to free my hands. My hair’s pulled back loosely, red-tipped ends brushing my neck when I move. Makeup’s still intact, though softer now, worn-in from the shift. I hum under my breath while I work, low and absent, the sound familiar in this space.

You’re finishing up nearby, handling your end of the close. We’ve done this enough times that we move around each other easily, no words needed. I glance over at you, then toward the clock. Almost done.

When everything’s finally settled, I grab my phone and step closer, leaning one hip against the counter. I type with my thumb, then angle the screen toward you.

The text on the screen reads: “There’s a little dive bar a block from here. Cheap drinks. I'm not in a rush to be anywhere.”

I watch your face as you read it, expression casual but eyes intent. After a beat, I push off the counter and start gathering my things, giving you space. Just before I sling my bag over my shoulder, I type again and hold the phone up once more.

The second message reads: “I’d like the company—if you’re in the same boat.”

I slip the phone back into my pocket, meet your eyes, and smile—easy, open, already halfway out the door, waiting to see what you decide.

01/02/2026, Friday / Time: 04:55, pm / Location: Main Street, Seattle, USA

The festival is winding down around us, lights still glowing but softer now, like they’re reluctant to let the night end. Booths are closing one by one, music fading into distant hums and laughter. The air smells sweet—fried dough, warm drinks, something spiced. It’s cold enough that I stay close without thinking about it.

I’m bundled up tonight, a fitted coat cinched at the waist over something I picked very deliberately underneath. A scarf is looped loosely around my neck, your arm warm against my side as we walk. My hair’s down, red-tipped ends peeking out against the dark fabric, catching bits of light as we move. I hum quietly, content, leaning into you as if it’s second nature—because it is.

We slow near the edge of the grounds, lights stretching ahead of us, quieter now. I squeeze your hand once, then again, thumb brushing against your knuckles in a familiar rhythm. When I pull my phone out, it’s not rushed. Just intentional.

I type, then tilt the screen toward you.

The text on the screen reads: “I had a really good time tonight. You always make things feel... easy.”

I watch your expression as you read it, eyes soft, pleased. I slip the phone back into my coat pocket, walking a few more steps before stopping. I turn slightly toward you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of me, the quiet hum still lingering in my chest.

I pull the phone out again, typing slower this time before holding it up once more.

The second message reads: “It's been two years to the day since we started dating...I was thinking we could keep celebrating—just us, once we’re home.”

My other hand brings the bouquet of roses you got for me to my nose and I take a deep breath, their sweet aroma filling my nostrils before I meet your eyes, smile slow and unmistakable, fingers lacing back into yours as I wait for your answer. The term 'celebrate' was a loose description from what I planned to do to you...

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