'But why "mint" of all the words?' Joe laughs, slicing apples to drop into the mason jar in front of her. 'What if you say, like, "that's mint ice cream"? How should I know if that means mint, the flavour, or if it's just excellent ice cream?'

I shrug, keeping my focus on the four pots of syrups I've got simmering on the hob. 'Never had that problem. I don't eat mint ice cream, that shit tastes like toothpaste–'

'Does not! What kind of toothpaste are you eating?'

'None. I don't eat toothpaste.' I cast her a grin. 'That one vegan coffee Ben and Jerries—now that is mint ice cream, that is.'

'I hate you.' Joe smiles as she returns to her mason jar, dropping in two stalks of cinnamon and picking up the ginger to slice.

We're together on opening shift again and after Fresher's Week having depleted nearly all of our backstock on syrups and infused liquors, Sasha assigned us to replenish it. Thus, we've spent the past hour in the kitchen.

We've found a good flow; Joe does all the chopping and makes the liquors whilst I focus on the syrups on the hob. I've worked here long enough to be able to have four going at the same time whilst Joe does still need to consult the recipes. She occasionally asks why I do things a certain way and explains how she used to do them at one of the, it turns out, insanely many previous pubs and clubs she's worked at. Our conversation mostly consisted of instructions for the first twenty minutes but we exhausted all work-related topics a while ago.

I stir each of the syrups in turn. The raspberry one is nearly done, but the others should probably keep boiling for another fifteen minutes. 'Did everything turn out okay with your essay?'

Joe stops slicing mid-peach to beam at me. 'Yeah, I've finished the course! I'm quite proud of it. It's odd, you know: I really hated uni. Well, I didn't hate it. I think I was just preoccupied with... other things and that meant everything with uni became a chore, if that makes sense. But I've really been enjoying Open University. I just feel, I don't know, empowered getting to learn new things. That's silly, it doesn't even make sense.'

'It makes sense.'

The sugar fumes from the syrups must be getting to my head because why the fuck are there flutters in my chest right now?

Cece's notification sound pings as I'm straining the raspberry syrup into a bottle and I pull my phone out without even lowering the sieve. My panic calms—it's only a picture of the orchid I gave him last winter. It has grown a second stalk and is now budding new flowers. I respond with a row of heart emojis.

Before I can tuck my phone away, they send another message: "summat i'm working on". The photo this time is of a few bits of metal welded together to form two teardrop-shaped frames. They send more pictures of sketches of a moth and explain they're trying to weld one. It must be going well then, with their new arts teacher. Cece deserves a teacher who actually values his style–

'Nikki!'

Joe's alarm brings me back to the present and the pineapple syrup about to boil over. I don't have time to react before Joe gently nudges me aside. The adrenaline still tarrying in my veins makes her touch flare through my entire arm. 'It's okay. Finish your message.' She don't seem mithered so I let her take over the stirring while I answer Cece.

Before that, I take the opportunity to watch her without her notice. Joe is wearing an oversized button-up with a binder and biking shorts that show just enough thigh for that to be the only thing I can think about. They'd be so soft for my fingers to dig into. And then my fingers could move to other places and I wouldn't care if all the syrups burnt–

Stop it. I mentally spray myself with water like a dog that keeps scratching the carpet and focus on typing my message. I'm pretty sure this is workplace harassment, walking about ogling her like that. I'm too old for this.

'Any good news?' she asks.

I look from my phone for clarification and realise how wide I'm smiling. 'Our kid just sent me some pictures of their art.' Without waiting for her to ask, I show her the screen.

'That's amazing!' Joe zooms in to inspect all the details on the sketch. At first, the design looks like a random camouflage pattern but a skull emerges from the wings when you focus. 'They're making that out of metal?'

'Apparently.'

'He must be creative.'

'He's a genius.' I take back the phone to open Instagram. 'He's never used metal before but they've just started at a new school and they've got a lot more resources than he's used to. Before, he's done drawings and a lot of graffiti.'

I find the deathtobeewolf page with ease and hand it to Joe to look through while I cap the raspberry syrup and take over the other three again. It's honestly dead unfair how Cece and Caleb are both incredibly creative and math wizards. Pick one!

Joe is slow to scroll through Cece's Instagram, clearly less bothered than I am by how gory some of the drawings and spray paintings are. It's several minutes later when she looks up. 'Death To Beewolf, what does that mean?'

Ignoring the cinch in my chest, I shrug. 'Dunno.' I've not dared to ask in case he don't wanna tell me. But I should know. I would know if had paid attention before last year.

'Well, your kid is a mint artist.'

I reciprocate her smile as I take my phone from her outstretched hand. 'Now just drop half of the letters and you'll pass for a native.'

Joe laughs. It's an odd laugh, not her usual airy giggle but a hissing cackle, like she's keyboard smashing in person: sksksksk. Somehow it's incredibly attractive. Sugar fumes.

'How are you settling in?'

Humming, Joe returns to her green cutting board with two halves of a peach still left on it. 'Better now,' she says as she quarters it and drops them into a new mason jar. 'I did a tarot reading about it and I think I've just been standing in my own way once again. So I'm trying to get out of my comfort zone a little. It just sucks because I used to be so social and now I'm about as comfortable in a crowd as Piglet.'

The self-deprecating humour decays quickly. A frown creases her mouth. It's a hairline fracture, a single root I might tug at to discover a network of vines that have ingrained into her skin—a haustorium. But I've barely known Joe for a month and either way, she wouldn't want me to peer past the lacquer. So, I pretend to not notice it.

Instead, I steer the conversation back to casual. 'Is that summat you believe in, tarot?'

Though her eyes evade mine with slight embarrassment, Joe seems happy about the change in subject. 'Umm...Well, I don't believe in them in the "it'll tell me the future" sort of way, you know, but I do like using them for self-reflection. I used to journal a lot and I've started again after the breakup but sometimes it's just difficult to get started. Like, what am I supposed to write?

'With tarot—I use the Celtic cross—it gives you a structure. You ask a question and when you interpret each card, rather than trying to guess someone else's life story, I ask myself and it forces me to think about, you know, things in my life. Does that make sense?'

I turn my whole body to face her. 'Joe, Caleb is my best mate and my brother's, well... Everything you say makes total sense.'

She exhales a laugh and opens a bottle of vodka to fill the mason jar. A hint of tension soothes in her shoulders and she stands straight, the embarrassment about tarot evaporating into the balm of the kitchen.

'I don't believe in zodiac signs either,' she says, 'but you bet I'll check mine when I see a meme.'

'And then I get furious when it ain't accurate.'

'Exactly.'

I turn off one of the burners and take the ginger syrup off the heat, dropping a funnel into the mouth of another bottle and a sieve into that. I steal a final glance at Joe before I start to pour. A smile is forgotten on her mouth as she slices lemon, swaying to a song in her head. Note to self: google tarot.

Notes

Binder: Compression clothing that flattens your chest, usually worn by people with breasts who want to appear more masculine.