Sean had been waiting for her for half an hour.
"Come on, come in. The show's over. What's with you?" Akreda Amena asked.
"I brought you a weak coffee. No sugar. And if you'd like, I can walk you home."
He handed her the cup. Their fingers touched. A contact that might—or might not—have been accidental.
"Sit."
The smell of weak, bitter coffee brought back memories of long university nights, when she wrote articles until dawn and dreamed of a future where she'd have a real microphone.
Sean watched her—not insistently, not awkwardly, but with a restrained admiration. He sat beside her, and under the long oak table his leg brushed against hers. A touch without looks, without words, yet impossible to ignore.
Akreda Amena had known Sean for nearly a year, since he'd been transferred to the news department. He was the type who listened more than he spoke.
"You had a good show," Sean said.
Akreda Amena simply looked at him, offering no reply. An incurable shy one, she thought.
"I can walk you home. If you want."
"Are you making a sexual advance?"
Sean blushed.
She wasn't the type to accept colleagues' invitations easily—especially outside work hours. She believed entangling herself with a coworker would restrict her independence.
"All right," she said at last. "But we walk."
They stepped out into the night's cold. The rain had stopped, but the sidewalks still gleamed under the streetlights. Sean slipped his hands into his pockets.
"So… you liked the doctor's story more than the episode with the Mexican poet?"
"No. That one was stronger. The man who cut women's ears off was memorable. Especially what he did with them afterward."
When they reached the corner of her street, Akreda Amena stopped.
"This is fine," she said. "Thank you."
Sean pulled one hand from his pocket and held out a small white envelope. His hand trembled slightly.
"For you. I wrote something. You don't have to open it now."
He turned and walked away without another word.
Akreda went into her apartment, sat down in the armchair, and opened the envelope. Inside, on a single page, was a short handwritten text. A kind of poem. A description of her during the broadcast.
In a city where everyone was running, someone had chosen to stand still—and watch her.