Bea sips her coffee from a bowl-sized cup cradled in her hands. I watch her through curling wisps of steam wafting from its surface, puffing a mouthful of air that swoops her long bangs out of her eyes. It isn’t the first time I’ve thought this, but after realizing she’s the one behind this week’s messages, it feels riskier to admit the truth—Beatrice is very beautiful. Even when she takes ten minutes to make a move.
