The first time he saw her, he wanted to know her name. She had been reading Murakami and seemed more absorbed in the words on the page than the room around her.
The fourth time they grabbed a coffee together, it was a Tuesday. Their conversations that week had lasted into the early hours of the morning, but they would soon be fluent in their own silent language. She already knew his order off by heart.
The sixth time he stayed at her place, he watched the way she handled her eyeliner like one of her watercolour paintbrushes. That night he apologised with a grin for smudging her lipstick and promised to never ruin her perfect artwork.
By the eighth, they both knew.