.01.

It's always been the colour of the water that I found myself attracted to.

Even at times when my friends said it looked disgusting, I liked it. They said the river looked as if someone had dumped tons of sewage into it, and I could see where this idea came from. After all, Thames was notorious for its unbearable smell caused by sewage in the late 19th Century.

But that is the aesthetic of Thames – its water's colour is its pass card.

I amble down the deck of the Southwark bridge, running my hand over the turquoise handrail. People push past me, even though I am already pinning myself to the parapet. A tourist girl extends her hand into the air to take a picture of the scenery beyond the bridge. Right in front of my face. I duck masterfully with a reflex I have developed during my walks in Central London.

Raindrops land on my nose, and I crane my neck to look up. The sky above is taut with opaque white clouds speckled with rays of the sun that pierce through the endless blanket.

A few people beside me moan and groan once they too feel the raindrops, and I smile. It's just rain, for God's sake, the worst it's going to do is get you wet.

Mum told me to bring my umbrella today but - just like I always did - I ignored her. I think I much prefer letting myself soak to the skin rather than having it my mum's way.

I want to make it to the tube station before it starts to rain heavily, so forcing my way through the mobile crowd, I take the steps down to the embankment that runs under the bridge. The child inside of me – or whatever is left of it – squeals with excitement as my boots enter the puddles, splashing the back of my straight jeans with rainwater.

I know every restaurant on my left as I pass glass-made buildings with benches in front and short street lights painted in black. As I look on my right, a pebbly patch of a shore is visible behind the embankment. The river's water is quite inert, so people are relaxing there, chatting and feeding a bunch of seagulls.

Bad idea. Wouldn't be long until a new lot of noisy seagulls arrives and fights for food.

By now, it's actually raining, so I consider waiting somewhere warm, preferable with a cup of coffee in my hands. Plus, my caffeine power bank needs to be replenished since my morning cup's effect has started to wear off.

Pulling my chequered blazer tighter around myself, I look for that unnoticeable sign I saw last week. It must be somewhere before the Globe theatre. My eyes scan the line of buildings, and that's when I see it.

Standing in front of the outdoor sitting area of an Italian restaurant is the wooden sign with a chessboard background.

Chess Café

I feel my stomach flutter at the thought of a steaming cup of coffee about to be drunk, so I take the left, leaving the river behind me, and make my way down a narrow cobblestone path, darkened by the brown houses that hover over me. A thin line of sky perks at me, and I wipe raindrops off my eyes with the sleeve of the blazer. The rain batters the rooftops right as I spill inside the café.

A scent of freshly made coffee teases my senses, and I take a step towards the counter on the right side of the coffee shop. Some relaxing music fills my ears, I think it's one of these indie bands mum and dad like to listen to.

But then I actually take a look to register my surroundings.

Chessboard pattern is imprinted in my eyesight, and suddenly it's all I can see as I close my eyes to stop my head from spinning. Chessboard floor is the least horrible thing I see. Tables that line the walls all have a chessboard painted over their surface. Chess pieces of both colours are waiting to be assembled in a tiny box, sitting in the middle of the table.

Thin boards of wood cover the walls of the café with various framed photos of black-white photographs hanging on them. The light provides this room with a rather warm atmosphere, I would even say cosy if you closed your eyes at the excessive chess-related design.

At the back of the café, by the huge navy-blue bookshelf unit, two guys are playing chess silently.

Too late to leave now.

I wipe my boots on the Welcome mat and walk to the counter. The counter is quite high, so I am taken aback to see a dark-haired guy sitting behind it, reading a book.

Clearing my throat, I mutter a "Hello". The barista shuts the book and puts it under the counter, too fast for me to read its title.

"Hiya, you alright?" he smiles, patting the sides of his dark-brown apron.

He stands up to his full height, and I have to cock my head slightly to scan the drinks menu behind him.

I don't have to actually decide on what I will be having, because it's always been the same old espresso, but I feel a bit uncomfortable just saying it straight away, so I make a very good scene of appearing mysterious, as if I am not sure what to order.

"Just an espresso, please," I say.

His eyebrows furrowed together instantly, his charming smile faltering. "Espresso?" he echoes.

Now it's my turn to furrow my brows. What is he on about?

"Yes, an espresso," I drawl.

He keeps looking at me, so I ask him, "Are you alright? You look confused."

The guy shakes his head, a smile appearing once again. He then turns around and starts the coffee machine, portafilter clattering as he presses ground coffee beans into it with a tamper. A scent of my wonderful espresso once again enters my nose, nourishing all of my senses as the hissing sound of water running through the filter fills the room.

The barista keeps quiet throughout the whole process, so I pull my phone out to check any notifications, and just like always, there is none. I open the tube app to see when the next tube is on the District line. Mum would get upset if I don't get home before dinner time, so there is approximately an hour for me to drink my coffee and run to the Cannon Street station. Talk about mission impossible.

He hands me my coffee, our fingers touching slightly as he lets go of the cup. "Can I treat you to any cake? We've got a lemon drizzle over there," he points to the glass-covered display, "Victoria sponge with a homemade strawberry jam."

I eye the cakes and then shake my head, "Thank you, but I like my coffee plain like that."

He opens his mouth to say something, but then smiles again, "I hope you like it, then."

I nod my head and look around for a table. On the left of the counter, there is a table nestled comfortably next to a column. I place the steaming cup there, whilst trying to read any titles of the books that line the bookshelves. Not getting a clear picture, I plop down into a chair, wincing as its back burrows deep under my rib. Rubbing my side, I shrug the tote bag off my left shoulder to the floor and pull The Amber Spyglass out of the green book sleeve my friend got me last Christmas.

Two days ago I was contemplating which book I wanted to read next. It was either A Moveable Feast or The Amber Spyglass. I went with the latter, even though I have read it lots of times, I still find my way back to the amazing trilogy. Especially when I want to lose myself in the waters of a fantasy, a made-up land, or surround myself with adventure-eager characters, who aren't afraid of getting out of their comfort zone.

As I open the book at the bookmark, I take a sip of my espresso. Its rich bitterness surpasses the sweet, caramelly aroma. The caffeine infuses my mind, delivering vitality and igniting the cells of my body back to life. My eyes flutter as I let the liquid penetrate my senses, obstructing the reality around me. My worries. My questions. My feelings.

The steam caresses the tip of my nose, warming my cheeks. I take another sip, and the vibrant taste elevates me off the ground, sweeping past the cobblestones, through the bridge over the Thames, overlooking the whole London as if I am a free bird with wings that could take me far away.

A chair scrapes over the floor in front of me, and someone sits down. I look up at the barista guy, who folds his arms over his chest and eyes me curiously.

What does he want to do now? Scrutinise my coffee even further?

I close my book slowly, fixing my gaze on his. I just wanted to read and drink my coffee, is that too much to ask?

I, too, fold my arms over my chest and lean back in the chair.

He leans on the table with his arms still folded. "You do realise this is a Chess Café, right?"

I raise my right brow, "I do realise that."

"You have to play chess like the guys behind me, espresso girl," he says in a daring tone. His dark eyes are framed with wispy eyelashes, and it is getting difficult to keep the eye contact.

"Are you kicking me out then, coffee guy?" I ask.

"Only if you refuse to play," he shrugs.

I think of the one hour I allocated for my reading and coffee and cry internally.

"Just one game."

"Let's play then," he smirks.