It was not very late when he saw her inside the cafe. 

He tried to have a closer look. It was not something he usually did. Honestly, he found it uncomfortable to look at a woman he did not personally know. He needed a connection, or at least some familiarity with a woman to look at her. But she was not a complete stranger to him. She was one of the participants in the creative writing workshop in English he was conducting in Bangladesh. The range of their conversation remained within literary purpose, as a part of interactive participation of the workshop among other participants. No private introduction took place between them. Considering from that point, she was somewhat of a stranger to him too.

There she was sitting inside the shop, alone, her right hand placed beside her right cheek. She let her hair fall around her shoulders, something she did not do any time during the workshop. What caught his attention was the faraway gaze in her eyes, listening to the music playing. He could hear the faint rhythm of some music coming from the coffee shop. It was nothing like a sad or a melancholic song; it was a chilling one. Yet her face was expressionless, as if nothing around her could move her; and her static mind seemed to be lost in some otherworldly, dynamic universe.

He stopped for a moment. Observation grew as a habit to him – he observed even those things with tiniest details that did not require his observation. He saw her breathing quickly. It felt really strange. Was she crying, inwardly? How could someone remain so numb in the face with an incredible sort of metabolism happening inside her body? The strangeness of the situation surprised him so much that he could hardly realize he was staring at a woman's chest. With awkward embarrassment, he lowered his eyes. It was not something he usually did. Also, it was not something he would never do if situation demanded.

He was not sure if he would do this if the coffee-shop was not empty. He himself was a reserved person, and the girl seemed to maintain certain distance as well.

Without struggling much with his thoughts, he decided to enter the shop. 

Her contemplation broke when he pushed the door and got inside. She moved, sat in a proper way and checked on her orna if it was neatly on its place. He felt unueasy; he did not mean to startle her that way. "Hello, you're here! Nice to see you." she spoke in Bengali, smiling at him.

He could not speak Bengali well. He grew up in Hyderabad, India; and Delhi was his current city. So, English was his only language to communicate with transcultural people. After publishing his first book in English, he began to feel he should work in the language more. Eventually, his literary career allowed him to meet different kinds of people across the world, and most of them were English speakers. He liked the language Bengali too; he could understand some when people spoke Bengali. He had also read some Bengali literature translated into English.

"Yes, just hanging around." he smiled too.

"Wow, you understood what I said!" she said in English this time, amazed.

"Ha ha. So, you're having some time with yourself? "

"Yes, you got that right. It's necessary for us – the writers – don't you think?" She laughed lightly. The grave numbness pervading across her face a moment ago disappeared so suddenly that he could hardly find any connection between her previous facial expression and the one he saw at the present moment. But there was one thing he would not deny – she had a sweet, lovely face.

"Yeah." He could not find what to say next.

"Please, have a seat here," she invited him, showing the seat opposite to her.

"Umm..." he hesitated for a moment. "Okay, if you insist."

"I hope I'm not disturbing your contemplation. Did you want to spend some personal time here?" asked she.

"Oh no, nothing like that." He realized he had given some unnecessary emphasis on the word 'no'. To cover that up, he acted reluctant to sit with her in the same table. However, in the next moment he regretted it. For some unknown reason, he thought she deserved some natural reaction from him.

"So, you're leaving Bangladesh the day after tomorrow?" she posed a rhetoric question – something whose answer she already knew. After visiting the international literary festival of Bangladesh, and conducting the creative writing workshop, it was indeed the time for him now to return to his country. 

He replied with a nod, "Yes."

"The workshop was really helpful," she said. "Although many people don't agree that you can be a writer by attending in workshops – they say a writer needs to be gifted. But I think it helps you to identify your problems."

He nodded again. She was talking too much, and avoided looking at his eyes while talking. It was evident she was trying to hide something – something that would make her insecure or vulnerable. When his coffee arrived, her crimson lips and the pair of dark brown eyes were the only colours he saw through the colourless smoke rising from his cup. He did not know what this feeling could be called. But he had felt this connection with this young woman—a closeness that was distant at the same time.

"How would you comment on my writing?" she asked, this time looking at his eyes. "I know I've still got a lot to improve, I want to know something real about it."

"Your storytelling is promising, I must say, although I haven't read much of your pieces. It seemed to me you write only when you feel it - that's why the tone of your narrator appears much personal and involved."

She lowered her eyes and gave a little nod. He forgot to sip into his coffee. He was confused. Did she got hurt by any of his words? He was only trying to be honest with his evaluation. Among all the participants of the workshop, it was her thoughts and mode of expression that felt unique to him.

"You're right." she roughly bit her lower lip, it pained him that she did so. "I only write when I'm euphoric. That's why most of my pieces come out so subjective, even when I'm using third person omniscient narrator."

"Euphoric?" 

"It's a Greek word — euphoria — to interpret a feeling of happiness which is not entirely happiness. You feel it, but you can't define. You know why it is happening, yet you can't find how."

He knew what euphoria was. Yet he let her explain it for him.

There was no smoke rolling out of his cup, but a delicate warmth lingered onto his fingertips.

"Then. Should I try to be more objective while writing... more concrete?" She tucked a piece of tissue paper inside her empty coffee cup. "Being euphoric cannot help in the long run, can it?"

He tried to argue against her statement - she did not need to be concrete, and she should only write when she feels euphoric. Her subjectivity was overwhelming, and it was not something that every young writer could master.

But he could not find anything else to say. When she said goodbye after an urgent call from home, he found himself still holding his cold cup - expecting the cafe's song to warm the coffee –  "Who's gonna drive you home tonight?"

Jarin Tasneem Shoilee is a graduate student, Department of English, Jahangirnagar University.