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You smiled at Colleta as you entered, swiftly navigating the other patrons to take your usual seat by the window. The coffee shop had undeniably seen better days but still maintained it charm in the unusual paintings on the wall (curious swirls of rich, earthy colours that were incredibly reminiscent of the more adventurous and flexible sexual positions you'd attempted over the years) and the handmade furniture which dated back decades.
Neatly folding the napkin in half and then half again, you slipped it beneath the wobbly leg then rested your elbows on the now perfectly stable surface. From your bag, you pulled out a notebook and started to sketch the world outside.
Despite months of trying, you were yet to accurately capture the true ambience of the town but you came back every day to try again. It was a sad little place, decimated by war but once again beginning to thrive as young people moved away from the bustling, impersonal cities to settle somewhere calmer, a place with personality and history that they could call home.
Rain trickled down the window pane. Cool drops crept in through the gaps in the sealant and wet the tissues which lined sill, pre-placed in preparation for the predictable autumn weather. Street lamps cast a soft, flickering glow over the concrete street, highlighting the many pot holes and cracks which local officials had been promising to fix for years now.
Almost oblivious to the rain, people floated through the town without haste, wrapped up warm and protected from the shower by bright, colourful umbrellas. Cheerful despite the hardships of everyday life. Among the sea of colour, you caught the splash of black immediately.
Averting your gaze, you were grateful for the welcome distraction as Colleta delivered your drink. She even treated you to a free slice of her infamous beetroot and chill cake – whether it was renowned for good or bad reasons was still up for debate but you thanked her nonetheless. You picked at the corner of the cake, needing to wash the cloying crumbs down with a large mouthful, your pen still scratching against the paper as you tried to capture the scene outside.
The chair behind you scraped against the floor, slow, deliberate, with the sole intention of attracting your attention. It was funny that she thought she had to try; you'd been aware of Agent Romanoff's exact position from the first moment you'd spotted her outside.
You brought the mug up to your lips and blew softly over the contents. Regardless of her questionable baking skills, Colleta certainly new how to whip up a good drink. Eyes fixed on the outside world, you muttered, "How's the weather in Barbados?"
"I hear there are chances of snow." Natasha's voice was soft, like a song you knew from years ago that warmed your heart, reminded you of simpler times.
