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The staff room has four mismatched mugs, a refrigerator covered in magnets, and a pot that has been cooking the same inch of liquid since dawn.

“Black?”

“Yes.”

“Finally, something easy about you.”

She takes the mug and smells it. “This is your good coffee?”

“This is the building’s good coffee.”

“That distinction matters.”

She drinks anyway. Her face doesn’t change.

“That bad?”

“I have had airport coffee in three countries.”

“And?”

“This is ambitious.”

I laugh and sit across from her.

For a few seconds neither of us says anything, and the quiet is a different animal now that nobody in the room is measuring me.

I tap a finger against the mug. “Dancing.”

“You are still thinking about that.”

“You introduced a competitive event I haven’t evaluated.”

“You are not invited to evaluate it.”

“Yet.”

“Mm.”

She takes another drink. I’m learning that she uses coffee the way other people use locked doors.

“What kind?”

“The kind with music.”

“Helpful.”

“I thought so.”

“You need a partner?”

“Sometimes.”

“You let him lead?”

“If he knows how.”

“That sounded judgmental.”