Author's Notes: This is an extension of a prompt MizJoely gave me ages ago from a prompt list I reblogged on Tumblr (which is why I'm actually gifting this story to her, for planting the seed that started this whole thing). She asked for #31 on the list, which was a client/prostitute AU and the plot I had for it has always been burning at the back of my mind. It's only recently, now I've got more time on my hands, that I've found the energy for it.

The title of this story is taken from Lorde's "Yellow Flicker Beat". In terms of updates, I cannot promise anything concrete. I can only say that I hope (hope) to update this story once a month.

Please don't forget to review, follow or favourite if you so wish.

Guaranteed Reservation:

Prospective guests, who have made a contract with a hotel for a guest room.

Her job was so stressful, and took up so much of her time, that when her friend suggested a blind date, Molly was half relieved and half hesitant. She swallowed back a portion of coffee and gave a nod. Her fingernails tapped, out of time and out of rhythm, against the cheap china cup.

"Sounds good," she said with a nod.

Meena flicked over a page of her magazine and scanned the words, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Molly sighed.

"I've done something. Haven't I?"

"Nope," replied Meena, though she still did not look up. Molly swallowed back another gulp of coffee, avoiding looking anywhere but her friend. Being raised side by side with someone had its side effects. One of them was the possession of the knowledge of their various tells; and every tell, every gesture, that Meena had at that moment screamed 'let me approach you, not the other way around, or I'll kill you'. The first time Molly had encountered such ram-rod composure in Meena's demeanour had been when she was 15, Meena was 13 and Meena had recently learned her parents were to divorce. Muttering about getting more coffee, Molly rose to her feet and headed towards the kitchen.

The kettle whistled just as the phone rang. Molly closed her eyes. She heard the click of the phone, followed by Meena's voice.

"Simon,"—of course, only him, the man with the worst sense of timing in the world—"look, I'm busy right now – I'll talk later. No, Lily's asleep. I'm not waking her up just so you can say hello to her."

Molly quietly stirred her second, or perhaps third, cup of coffee and strained not to hear. She focused her attention on the wall. The hand-painted cherry blossom, which trailed out from the doorway and over the back wall and the overhead pine cupboards, was Meena's pride and joy. The years hadn't exactly been kind to it, and some of it was chipped and other parts were eroded, but it still drew the eye. Molly smiled as the sound of Meena's voice faded almost to nothing. So concerned was she of her daughter's sleep cycle, she would never raise her voice. Even when her ex-husband was doing his best to push every single one of her buttons.

"God – what a prat." Meena stomped into the kitchen and threw down the phone on the table and sat down. "He knows Lily's been struggling to get to sleep lately and then thinks nothing of asking me to interrupt her just so he can say hello – then calls me overprotective."

Molly turned and set down the coffee in front of Meena, who glanced at her.

"Thanks. You know, my mum used to say that there were some men who didn't have enough blood to fuel both heads at the same time." She frowned. "Pity I had to have a child with one of them."

Molly slid into the chair beside her. "And then you've got a friend who blanches at the idea of a blind date," she said playfully. "You've not got much luck, have you?"

"None at all," Meena replied, and her smile widened. She reached back and touched at her hair to scoop it around her neck, letting it fall over her right shoulder. "Anyway – this date I mentioned. I promise he isn't a dick masquerading as a nice bloke. I can smell those ones from a mile off."

"I'm not questioning your judgement, M. I'm really not. I just… I'm too busy." Molly shrugged. "Even for a blind date."

"Oh come on. How do you know you don't have time? You never make time! And, a blind date is ideal for you. It saves all that stupid hassle of going out all dolled up to pull – and also saves the disappointment of when you come up empty."

"But there's still all that—" Molly flapped a hand to emphasise her point, "awkward conversation."

"Otherwise called an actual date," Meena said with a pointed stare. Molly sighed. Seemed then, that her friend would not be deterred.

"Fine. What's this guy do?"

"He's actually an old family friend," Meena explained, gently picking at her nails. "Met him when I went down to Mum's for her birthday. I've talked to him a few times since, you know, over Facebook. And he's your standard bloke, very cute. Good for you, certainly. I think he's worth a chance. And he's eager to meet you."

"You tell him what I do?" Molly asked, her hand tucked against her cheek. She gave a short laugh when Meena, all of a sudden, turned rather sheepish and worked to avoid all eye contact with her.

"I – I might have said you worked in a hospital, like me. Didn't… exactly tell him in which department though."

Molly rolled her eyes and leaned back. "Hopefully it won't freak him out too much when he does find out."

Meena's eyes lit up. "So you'll do it?"

Molly nodded. After all, she couldn't very well refuse.

Age: 75. Cause of death: natural. Notes on— Molly dropped her pen onto the desk and grasped at her wrist. With a soft hiss, her touch gentle and habitual, her fingers moved over her cooled skin as she massaged at the bone and rocked her hand back and forth against the sensation. She cracked her neck a little and rubbed at her eyes.

When her phone had trilled twenty minutes ago, followed by another harsh trill not ten minutes ago, she had brushed it away as the alarm she had once made in an effort to be more organised and never bothered to disable even though she had soon learned that, in a morgue, time was not the priority and alarms that told her to go home and sleep were rather needless. When her phone rang however, and the noise echoed against the metal surfaces and concrete walls, Molly somehow knew she was in trouble.

"Um, hi – Molly, is it?" The voice on the other end was not quite friendly, but light, tempered down by nerves. "This is, um, Frank."

"Oh! Frank, hi," Molly said, and winced. "It was – today. Wasn't it?"

"Our date? Yeah. I rang Meena, and she gave me this number to call you, but – well – you didn't answer so—" Sounds of traffic rushed by him, and his voice crackled, "—to head home."

Molly nodded. "Yeah. I kind of thought you were my alarm. I work late quite often, see…"

"No, I totally get it!" On the other end of the phone, Frank laughed. The polite kind, the kind that was frustrated, but in the end, understood the situation. "I work long hours myself, so I – get it. Though I already said that. But yeah, completely understand."

"Glad to hear it," Molly replied, picking up her pen. She twirled it in thought. "Pity that we didn't get to meet really, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Pity." There was a heaviness to his voice, a slight trace to it which told her he meant it. "I'm just about to head towards the Underground now Molly, so, um – cheerio."

"Bye. Have a good trip—" The line beeped once, a dull beep, and Frank was gone. Lost signal, more than probable. Molly let the last word of her sentence fade on her tongue and dropped her phone onto her desk.

One blind date. One single evening, with one single bloke. She couldn't even get that right.

"I've figured it out. The problem isn't that I don't make time, M," Molly said later on that evening, her phone tucked under her chin and her keys in hand. Hitching her bag back onto her shoulder, she scrabbled at the door lock. "It's that I can't."

Though muffled and little more than a distant tinny sound, Meena's frustrated sigh still managed to ring clear.

"Dead bodies can wait, can't they? I mean, they're dead."

Shutting her flat door firmly behind her, Molly dropped her bag on the floor and battled her way through Toby winding around her legs in some desperate attempt at affection in exchange for food to get to the kitchen. Molly pressed her phone closer to her ear.

"The families of those dead bodies won't though." She opened the fridge and retrieved a can of cat food. At the kitchen doorway, Toby meowed and flicked his tail. His green eyes watched her. "I can't leave someone's corpse hanging around in the morgue or paperwork unfilled because I'm supposed to go on a date with someone."

Another, rather more defeated sigh from Meena's end. "Dead people are more inconvenient than you think," she muttered. Molly peeled the jelly mould of food from the tin into Toby's bowl. Warm fur pressed back up against her legs and the presence of a purr made itself rapidly known.

"I'd say cats are more inconvenient than corpses," Molly replied, arching an eyebrow at the feline creature. "Dead people don't keep asking for food every five minutes."

"True," Meena laughed. "But at least your cat doesn't stop you dating."

"See, M, there are pros and cons to everything," Molly said and she set down the bowl in front of Toby, who meowed in appreciation.

"Mm. But, seriously. If you could, hypothetically, find the time to date – would you?"

"Obviously. I mean—" Leaving Toby to his supper, she headed out of her kitchen and into the living room. Kicking off her shoes, she dropped onto the sofa. Toby, replete of food, followed her and proceeded to make himself comfortable stretched out across the coffee table.

Molly gave a brief glance around the bare, silent room. She had surprised people before, with how bare her flat was. Some people had even called it minimalist in the past. She guessed that those people didn't know that all the trinkets in all the world, when one lived alone, were a bugger to clean. "Living alone isn't the best thing ever. Sure, I get my own space and whatever, but – but – I don't know."

"There's something missing."

"Yeah." The real pity came in the fact that it was hard to actually define what the missing thing was. It was easy to feel it, but when it came to describing the sensation, she was lost on that account. Some might've described it as loneliness but she had always been an isolated person, never in need of friends and companions, always being the sought out never the seeker. A need or desire for companionship, perhaps. Yet even that didn't fit.

"What if - what if you had, like, a third option maybe?"

That drew her from her thoughts. Molly sat up, eyes narrowed. She knew that tone of voice, and it was often one Meena possessed when she had a plan. Or at least the beginnings of a plan.

"What kind of third option?"

"Well, it's kind of out there – though I don't if you—" A call of Meena's name cut off the rest of her sentence. "Oh God, Lily's awake – I think she's had a nightmare, I've gotta go – look, I'll tell you about it at work. Bye!"

Molly blinked, and put her phone to one side. What Meena had in mind was utterly lost on her (for the moment), but she couldn't very well deny her interest being piqued. It had been. There had been a curious edge to Meena's tone, something almost wistful, and it was something that could be maddening to think about and dwell on. Molly grabbed her book from underneath Toby and sunk into the cushions, curling up against the cold of the evening. Meena's proposition would simply have to wait.

The potato salad was cold, slathered in mayonnaise and it was with a prayer of hope that Molly took her first bite of it. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth contorted into a frown when the slime of mayo slipped its way down her throat. With as much discretion as she could muster, she pushed the dish away.

"Told you eating healthy sucks," an approaching Meena said and she settled into the chair opposite. She cheerfully stabbed at the rather limp salad leaves on her plate. Molly shook her head and made a mental memo to buy a sandwich from the shop.

"I think it's just the cafeteria food that's rubbish, to be honest." She tucked her hair behind her ear, eyeing the fishcakes that Meena happily tucked into. "And about last night, over the phone. What was this thing that you were going to tell me? Before Lily woke up?"

Meena frowned, briefly, and then smiled. Her eyes flashed with a telling glint.

"Okay, I'll tell you. Just bear in mind it's… kind of a bit mad."

Molly shrugged and nodded for Meena to continue. Considering she had once ended up flying to Paris on a whim—not an experience she was ever to repeat, or wanted to repeat—because of her best friend, it wasn't like Meena could surprise her with anything.

"You could use an escort service."

Molly's eyes widened. Her eyebrows tilted upwards. She shot Meena an incredulous look.

"A prostitute?" she asked, wary.

"Yeah. But escort service is more accurate."

Molly's first reaction was to scoff. Her second reaction was to ask how Meena, a woman with limited funds and a small child to look after, knew of such things.

"Just because I'm a mother doesn't mean I'm suddenly a nun, Molls," Meena said, voice low. "Anyway, it's like I said last night – a friend of mine used the service, and told me about it. I was curious, so…"

Molly's eyebrows tilted higher. "You did it?"

"Only once. That was all I could afford, really. It was soon after the divorce. I just wanted a shag. Something to make me forget all the shit Simon had put me through so I – booked an appointment."

Molly gave a slow shake of her head. Use of a prostitute (or escort service). She could see the logic behind it. Cash in hand, no responsibilities, just one session and that was that. Goodbye and bon voyage, nice doing business with you. That didn't however, stop her laughter. Meena only raised an eyebrow. Deftly, she reached into her bag, took out her purse and retrieved a pristine black business card from it. She pushed it towards Molly and stood.

"Just think about it, okay? He really helps,"—she gave a wink—"relieve any tensions."

Molly swatted at her, but Meena smiled knowingly, stood and with a flick of her hair over her shoulder, left. Molly sipped at her coffee and examined the card. At first touch, it seemed to have an oddly smooth quality to it, but after tracing her fingers against it a little while longer, she soon came to the realisation: the card was covered with a layer of black velvet. Flipping it over in her fingers, she saw golden lettering, practically engraved into the card. Lettering which seemed to shine out against the velvet.

~ Sherlock Holmes ~
Don't be dull.

Molly brushed back tendrils of her hair and tried not to look at the clock on the wall above the reception desk. In a hedonistic sense of delirium, accompanied by a dose of courage that only came with alcohol consumption, she had Googled the name on the card, found his website and booked—actually booked—the appointment. After all the whole concept of one night, separate from reality where the two parties knew what was going to take place and everything could be predicted, was a great temptation. The temptation had made her smile. It had given her cause to dream, to think what it might be like to step away from her life and just not care. It was intoxicating. (Though that might've perhaps been more the alcohol.)

An exchange of e-mails later, with a list of instructions detailed to her (Claridge's Hotel, 7pm, smart wear), and now she was stepping into the hotel lobby. A lobby which was bigger than her entire flat. While she wore a dress she'd impulsively spent far too much money on, and distractedly contemplated the idea of leaving the fee behind the desk and running out of the hotel without looking back once.

She let out a breath, the sound shaky and uncertain, and she came to a stop in front of the desk. The receptionist, an efficient-looking man with an equally efficient smile, asked her if she needed anything today.

"Yes, I've got a room booked. The…" She closed her eyes, trying to remember the instructions given. "Superior Queen Room. Under the name of Holmes."

One quick scan through his computer later, the receptionist gave a nod. He asked if she had any baggage. She said no. Calling over a member of staff, he pressed the key into their hand and bid them to escort her upstairs. Molly was surprised she even managed the tiny walk towards the lift. The porter said nothing. They only eyed her once, cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him. Molly swallowed a blush. She flicked at the roof of her mouth with her tongue. Dry. She clenched her fingers against her palm. Clammy, verging on sweaty.

The lift came to an easy stop, and she followed the porter out of the lift, towards the room. The porter seemed to glide to a stop, sliding the key into the lock and opening the door for her. Molly stepped inside and took a glance at the room. She swallowed. Pastel grey walls, blue satin throws folded over the edge of the mattress, blue leather bench at the end of the bed, crisp white sheets, soft yellow lighting, widescreen television, cream suede furniture.

The contemplation of doubling back, turning towards the porter and asking him to take her all the way back down towards the ground floor had her opening her mouth to speak and turning her head.

Such contemplations were dismissed when she heard the familiar trill of her phone, causing her to jump a little. A "thank you" tripped out from her mouth over her shoulder and the door closed behind her. Molly shivered, and she scooped up the phone out of her purse, drawing her thumb over the lock screen. A message, short and to the point, splashed across the screen.

You have 10 minutes. – SH

She hoped that meant 10 minutes until his arrival. She moved forward. Then another trill, another message, not a moment later.

What are you wearing? – SH

She could feel her throat constrict. Hesitant she typed out her reply.

If I tell you, will you tell me what you're wearing?

I show you mine, you show me yours. Is that what you're proposing, Miss Hooper? - SH

She let out a shaking breath. On the coffee table in front of her, there stood two champagne glasses, filled to the brim. She picked up one. Was that what she was proposing? She took a large gulp of champagne.

I think so.

The reply came back not a second later.

Black suit, purple shirt. Is that to your liking? - SH

And yourself? – SH

She bit at her bottom lip, perching on one of the cream-coloured chairs. She slipped off her heels. (Nude, bought back when she was feeling brave and wanting to ape Kate Middleton). She typed out her message.

A dress, blue. It's expensive.

No. She shook her head, wiping at her mouth. That was stupid. She made to erase the message and start again but somehow her thumb hovered over the 'Send' button and she could do nothing but watch as the message made its way into the ether.

Molly heaved a sigh and set down the glass and poked her feet back into her heels. This whole idea was stupid, silly and just, well, not her. Maybe that was why she had done it. Life so easily got staid; it was (of course it was) nice to have an adventure or two. This adventure though. This sort of adventure was supposed to be left to braver women like Meena. Opening her bag, she withdrew the large wad of cash and dropped it onto the table. She made her way out of the room.

Her footsteps were silent against the plush carpet of the corridor and she let out a heavy sigh as she called for the lift, drawing her hands over her features. The lift doors pulled open and her gaze fell over the only passenger in the lift. Dark curly hair. Piercing eyes whose colour she couldn't pinpoint. A phone in his hand, he wore exactly the garments he had described. A black suit, purple shirt. The buttons undone in such a way that the pale expanse of his neck was plain to see.

Stepping out of the lift, he flipped the phone over in his hands. A calm look in his expression, he began to circle her. Every movement he made and every moment shared between them measured and concise. Any little change in the situation taken into consideration. Molly rubbed at the space between her neck and her shoulder. He smiled, his eyes dropping down towards her dress.

"Clearly expensive." He took another step forward, tucking his phone into his pocket. He brought his hands up but only touched at the line of her jaw with his fingertips. He brought her eyes up to look straight into his. His gaze hardened, and his tone, once a light drawl, fell into a more serious tone of voice. "If you wish this to, at any point, stop and for me to leave, tell me. This is, after all, about you."

She swallowed and somehow managed to nod. The hardness in his gaze faded. That same playful, seductive smile crossed his mouth. He inclined his head, an invitation. Molly took a short intake of breath and reached up. Her fingers curled up underneath the lapels of his jacket. Her breath quickened, and it was, for a moment, all she could hear. She pressed her mouth to his. A shot of electricity raced up through her spine, causing her to smile. She caught his mouth again, deeper, and looped her fingers tighter against the lapels of his jacket. (She'd always had a thing for lapels, always the lapels, even if she didn't know why).

He responded in kind, one hand palming around her waist. The other sank instinctively into her hair. She arched a little against him, his warmth flushing her body and her mind. She applied more pressure to their kiss and revelled in how it felt, how he held her. Almost as if he were not touching the cool satin of her dress but the heated surface of her skin.

She swept her tongue along the edge of his bottom lip, courage dictating that particular action. A tiny yelp of delight escaped her when he repaid her by nipping against her lower lip. He drew her closer, and she felt his smile against hers.

The cool of the corridor surrounded her when he withdrew from her and stepped back. She allowed her eyes to remain closed, remaining in the still heat of their kiss.

When she did allow herself to open her eyes once more, she found her hand still with his. She let go, keeping her eyes on him. His expression flickered, a hint of something hidden in the cool, seductive demeanour. He pulled at the hem of his suit jacket, brushing at the material. Calmness returned, any moment he could've had gone. Her tongue drew out against her bottom lip. The sensation of the kiss was still settling against the pink flesh.

"Do you have regulars?" The question came out before she could stop it. Anyone who kissed like that had to have—regulars. He quirked an eyebrow and straightened his suit collar.

"A few."

She gave a nod. "Oh – okay."

She didn't know how or why, but as of that moment, she couldn't help but feel brave. Silently, she held his hand tighter and, with a smile on her lips, led him into the hotel suite.

On the bed he sat, fingertips pressed together and his head tilted. Stood at the table, Molly opened a bottle of water. She touched it to her lips and swallowed. Better to clear her head now. She let out a breath, and put the bottle to one side.

"So," she breathed, turning. All the bravery in the world couldn't stop her thinking. "What happens?"

"Happens?" He spoke the word as if it was strange to him. He gave a soft quirk of a smile and he stood. "Whatever you like."

She pressed her fingers to her temple, giving a short laugh. "It's been so long I hardly know what I like."

His brow creased and his lips momentarily thinned; a tiny display of annoyance. He reached towards the buttons of his suit jacket. They fell apart under his fingertips. The material seemed to drift from his shoulders. He moved forward to drape it over the back of one of the chairs. "Do you remember what you like?"

She watched every movement he made, like an audience member watched a dancer. She stroked at her collarbone, an old habit that she could never stop. "Um. A little bit. I remember liking – neck stuff?"

His smile grew by a centimetre. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific than that, Miss Hooper."

"Kisses." Her hand traced up, cupping at her nape and she tilted her head, looking up at him. "I like those. And sometimes love bites. But only sometimes. General – touching is good too. I don't know how to describe it in more detail."

His hand hovered over hers and he bent his head. His lips traced over her neck, moving up, up. Up until he reached the edge of her jaw, where he bestowed one dry kiss. Nice, Molly thought. Incredibly nice. He drew away, eyeing her. No doubt an attempt to read her, to see he was doing his job right. Molly fought back a smile and dropped her hands to her sides, moving towards the bench. She sat and let her heels glide off her feet. When she stood again, a giggle burst out of her. He towered over her small frame. He said nothing to her outburst but instead moved around her. His fingers touched at her zip.

"What else do you remember liking?" he asked, an air of conversational tone in his words. Molly gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"I've never thought about it. I like when someone – kisses me. On my stomach. And, obviously, cunnilingus. What woman doesn't?" She heard a breath of a laugh come from behind her, and she imagined him giving a nod. "And, um, when someone pays attention to my breasts. Guys never tend to do that, it's kind of maddening."

The satin peeled away from her body and fell into a crumpled mess around her ankles. Stepping to the side, she scooped up the dress. Folding it twice, she sat it down on the bench. She straightened up and turned. It felt strange, cold. Stood there in underwear she'd barely worn (her best set, only brought out for special occasions) and he still wore his suit.

"You should go and get freshened up," he said, undoing the shirt. It fluttered out to his sides. A peek of toned torso met her eyes. She bit at her bottom lip, hiding a smile. She turned and slipped inside the bathroom.

Shutting the door behind her, she tiptoed across the dark marble flooring. Washroom products, expensive and new, arrayed the shelf above the sink basin. Her gaze though, focused on the mirror above the sink. She'd half imagined herself to look pale and frightened and terrified but she didn't. She looked confident. Ready. Looking back at the products, she lathered her hands with soap. One night, she thought. She glanced back up at her reflection and ran her hands underneath the tap. That was all. She had to savour it.

His mouth explored her stomach, teasing every inch of her skin. His hands positioned either side of her, Molly watched him, a lick of a smile on her lips. Her heart felt as if it were almost thrumming with want.

He drew his hands closer, easing down the sides of her body towards her hips. She shifted underneath him, her smile widening into a grin. Her grin evolved into a gasp when his fingertips grazed over her lower stomach. He drew a line against her slit, his gesture almost calculated. Molly gave another gasp, her hips gently canting with the movement. He explored her further, touching at her folds. His other hand drew away from her hip. It settled against her leg, round towards the surface of her inner thigh. His gaze flicked upwards, locking onto hers. That same studious look crossed his features and it was a look which made her squirm. Usually, she enjoyed seeing someone come apart. She enjoyed seeing them lose whatever façade they possessed but this, this was different.

The hand he had at her thigh shifted. His palm trailed up her leg and his fingers slid underneath to clasp at the back of her knee. Against the warm flesh he made firm, small circles with his fingers. The movement composed, steady. A squeak, slight and brief, sounded from her. His calmness cracked; a smile crept onto his mouth. A jolt jumped through her as he finally gave her what she had yearned for and touched at her clit. She moaned, the sound coming from the back of her throat. His free hand let go of her knee and he held her side. His thumb stroked the underside of her breast. She felt sweat bead on her forehead and she turned her head, her cheek against cool goose down, a low hum in her throat.

To her, sex had always been more than a fact. It had been a gesture, something not just physically shared between two people but emotionally too. That though, had been before. She realised, as he replaced his fingers with his tongue, and her moans evolved into pants, that this was away from reality. No afterthought of what the awkward morning after would be like. No promise of fumbling for words after the fact. It was enchanting.

The water flowed over her, the sound of the shower drowning out whatever else. Molly closed her eyes and leaning forward a little, she massaged at her scalp. Soap ran over her shoulders and down her arms and back. Wet tendrils of her hair stuck to her skin. She repeated the motion a few times before she turned and switched off the shower head. Stepping out of the bath she wrapped herself in a thick bathrobe. After years of the comfort provided by the worn dressing gown she'd had since university, it felt odd to an extent.

When she entered the bedroom, she found him sat on the bench, his phone in his hand and already dressed. Such a sight sobered her. It was so easy to stay in the blissed out head space. To stay smiling and not have to think about money or what he, what they both, had done for that money. She tugged the robe tighter against herself and swallowed, gripping her hands together. She hurried towards the table, taking up the money. She felt him look at her, felt him stare at her.

"I've got the payment here," she said, and cringed at how breathless she sounded. How needless her words were. She breathed a little easier when she straightened up. He hadn't been staring at her at all. He hadn't been watching her fumble. He only looked up when she offered out the money. He stood, and stepped forward.

"Thank you," he said a rigid edge in his voice. His fingers clasped around the money, his eyes casting down towards it. She let go of it without a word and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Um…"—at that, he tilted an eyebrow, perhaps he knew what was going to happen, what she was going to say—"What does it take to become a – regular?"

He adjusted his collar. His reply was short. "Money. And time."

She asked him if the following Sunday was good for him. "Of course," he said with a smile, one polite and short and matter-of-fact. Molly let out a breath and bit at the tip her thumb. Her gaze fell on the door.

She smiled.

She rubbed at her forehead, and watched as coffee spluttered from the machine and into the polystyrene cup. The first she saw of Meena was on her periphery, making a show of looking through the papers in the folder she carried. She waited until her first sip of coffee to speak.

"Well, if you're wondering." She tucked her hand into her pocket and turned to face her friend. "It was... pleasant."

Meena cocked an eyebrow, and turned her head. "And…?"

"And…" Molly stopped and swallowed. She shrugged and took another sip of her drink. "That's it."

A frown appeared between Meena's eyebrows, the faint echo of a question in the "Right, okay" that followed. She said nothing else about it. Molly was glad for it.