This was a homey place. You bring your own plastic jug. No sign on the door -- they were all inside. I stood in the corner, next to the shelf with the pasta and marmalades and tapenades, in happy silence. I toyed with the lining in my pocket; my thumb kept finding the lone strand. Around me a buzz of words and fizz and taps.
And then I was handed a plastic cup. It was akin to pressing play.
