.02.

Two weeks passed in a blur since I met Thomas - the barista. Frankly, I enjoy calling him the coffee guy. It adds to his already existing charm.

When we played chess that day, I lost multiple times in a row. To say that I was ashamed of myself is an understatement. I felt like I wanted the ground to swallow me down and never, ever let me out.

Gosh, my own father would be ashamed of me. He taught me chess when I was six years old; him being a regular 'play with mates' type of chess player didn't help my luck with Thomas. It only made me feel worse.

Anyways, from what Thomas had said, girls were allowed to play boys, to my greatest surprise and perplexity, since the sexist stereotype of boys being better than girls at literally everything pisses me off greatly. He had said that at least one-third of his chess club was girls, which was like a balm to my aching soul.

Apart from Thomas, chess and rainy weather, nothing has happened to me in the past two weeks I have been existing. University has me strapped and chained to its deadlines and commitment issues so intensely that I haven't been able to lift a book off the shelf for almost two weeks. I am swamped even now with three essays due next Friday, two painting analysis pieces due the same day and hundreds of pages of further reading I have to complete by next Monday.

God Bless Saturdays! And Sundays!

Why are there only 24 hours in a day again? Well, I definitely need more.

Although, today I am absolutely going to have a coffee at the chess cafe, sit down alone and finally complete The Amber Spyglass. I need a break from this never-ending madness - also known as a university.

After completing the trilogy, I am probably going to watch the film, The Golden Compass, and then spend the rest of my day being angry with the fact that there is still no TV series or films for the whole trilogy. Britain has got to sort this out because His Dark Materials is one of the best series written across the whole world, along with The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Ring.

Thomas and I wanted to meet at the chess cafe in the afternoon for a game or two.

I lift myself off the bed and place my laptop carefully on the bookshelf next to a pile of art books. I look at myself in the mirror and shudder at the creature staring back. I wouldn't be lying if I said that I looked like Gollum. My under-eye bags appear more intense today than they did the day before because of the first essay. Dirty-blonde curls have transformed themselves into a birds nest, all stuck out and tangled as if I wrapped them together with a piece of chewing gum.

Running a brush through my hair laboriously, I survey all the possible outfits I can wear today. The sky has cleared and the lovely morning sun shines through the window, leaving a soft and glorious glow. It looks like it's going to be quite warm, so I can take my denim jacket, just in case.

To conceal the sleep-deprived nights I have been graced with, I decide to apply a concealer, run a mascara through my lashes and - my absolute sweet nightmare - red lipstick. It takes painfully long to perfect on your lips, but the result never disappoints.

I pack the book I'm currently reading, my diary and pencil case into my cream tote bag and proceed to the wardrobe. I open its walls, the door creaking and the smell of stale wood hitting my nose. I should really beg my mum to purchase a new one, although I already know the idea is potentially fruitless as she likes to buy things from antique or charity shops.

Swiftly, I tug a navy-blue pullover over my white t-shirt and shimmy into a knee-length pleated skirt. It's wise to pull on some tights, so I go for my favourite - mustard-yellow ones.

I don't forget to finish my outfit with a pair of shiny black Oxford shoes.

I feel like my eyes are going to melt over this amazing attire.

Last time, just like I had anticipated, I missed the dinner with my family. Today, it isn't going to happen, and Thomas will be incapable of chaining me to that ridiculously hard chair and compel me to play. I feel like this lad should really find a chess player girlfriend.

I check my wristwatch to find out that its quarter to noon and my heart picks up a beat.

I am late!

I rush down the neighbourhood to make it just on time for the bus that would take me to Barking station and, hopefully, I can take District line to Richmond and get off at the good, old Cannon Street station.

Pulling my book out, I keep staring out of the window. The dark-red neighbourhood houses stretch across the window lazily, warm sunlight reflecting off the shiny windows, door handles and metal gates. I blink away immediate dizziness and strain in my eyeballs from trying to capture each house with my eyes. People walk and run, chat and purse their lips, tall and short; everyone is doing their own thing. How different each one of us is, it's marvellous.

~ ♨︎ ~

I am lucky to arrive at the cafe on time.

The endless lines of people at the tube station and frowsty coach with no seats to rest my long legs assured me I was going to arrive late. But then, I am irrationally anxious about arriving later than I am supposed to most of the time.

As soon as I enter the cafe, I mentally deflate once again at the horrible design of this place. It's not as pretentious as it is ostentatious. I almost forgot how badly the chequered pattern imprints itself onto the back of your eyelids.

Thomas stands there behind the counter, chatting to a guy in front of him. Thomas is taller than the guy and, assuringly, more handsome.

Straight jet-black hair splits in the middle of his head and falls in strands over his high forehead. It obscures his ears and reaches below his jaw, and at this moment I realise that he is the coolest guy I have ever seen; his resemblance to Keanu Reeves is undeniable and unquestionable.

Except for the lack of a beard and Keanu Reeves' characteristic charisma.

He lifts his eyes to glance at me when the sound of the stupid doorbell rings and then pats the guy's shoulder, grinning. The guy leaves to sit down at one of the tables, and I take a deep breath in because now it's my turn to shine and avoid slipping on an invisible banana peel.

I confidently walk over to him as he scans my clothes, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

I fix my eyes with his when he is done surveying, my lips in a smirk, "Like what you see?".

He follows my humour, "I think I like mine," he motions to his barista apron, "more."

I click my tongue, "What a loyal devotee of his coffee craft."

"Another victim," he sighs. Thomas leans over the counter, planting his hands over its edge to prop himself. Our eyes are on the same level, and I find myself deciphering his eye colour. It's like olive green but lighter, perhaps a forest green. "Will you play today?"

"Maybe," I say, "but don't you want to talk for a bit? Many chess players find out about other players through their previous games prior to the start of a tournament. But since we don't apply to that, we can just chat."

He nods his head. I continue with the speech I have come up with the day before. "I read that you can discover their personality and values just by looking at their tactics. Is that right?"

"Absolutely. If a player aims straight for your king and plots a tactic to attack it right away, it tells you that this player is quite bold. Brave, even. Vice versa for the cowardly ones. They like to take your pieces piece by piece because they know that otherwise, you would win over," he says.

"What if we discuss more of chess tactics and plots over a cup of espresso and whatever pseudo coffee drink it is that you drink?"

He doubles over and shakes his head in a disarming laugh, that fills the cafe over the quiet music playing. I roll my eyes.

"Pseudo coffee drink? You mean a cappuccino, thank you very much," he says in between laughter.

I fold my arms over my chest, raising a brow at his childish reaction. "Are you done with that?"

Silently, I watch the veins that run along his thin arms, the muscles that go taut as he props himself again over the counter. The dark T-shirt he is wearing wraps around his slender, almost scrawny, frame shamelessly.

I also watch the curve of his thin lips that are stretched in a wide smile.

What a set of impeccable pearl-white teeth. Is that because he drinks coffee with milk? I have heard many theories that coffee and tea with milk don't stain your teeth as much as they do without milk.

But then, my teeth are not particularly yellow, are they?

I swipe my tongue over the front row of teeth.

Blimey! Why on earth am I doing that?

I shake my head in disbelief.

"You alright there?" he asks, likely after seeing my brooding face.

"Yes, so join me over there?" I point to the furthest chequered table by the bookshelf.

"Let me prepare the coffee and I will be with you in a moment."

He pulls out two cups from under the counter and proceeds to the coffee machine.

My heart picks up a beat as I make my way to the table, a silly grin plastered to my face.

Suddenly, I find myself getting worried.