Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

16. Visiting England

November 13, 1945

Union Cafe

London, British Empire

"Rather than 'on' the toast, might the egg be adjacent to it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And a black coffee, please."

"Oh, I'm sorry. We only have espresso."

"Some hot water as well then. And an extra cup."

"...Yes, ma'am."

"Thanks."

The waitress practically snatched the menu from my hands, revealing England's unimpressed stare across the table.

I fussed with the linen napkin in my lap as I crossed my legs. Enduring such judgment before my morning coffee was practically criminal. "I don't know why the concept of 'black coffee' is so difficult for you Europeans," I muttered spitefully.

"Coffee is Italian," he stated, snapping the newspaper in his lap as his attention returned to it. "You're the ones making it wrong."

I resisted the urge to start an argument. Leaning my elbows on the table, I perched my chin on my hands. The cafe was fancy—white tablecloths, candlesticks, and crystal chandeliers. I couldn't picture a proper counterpart, even in New York City. My mind drifted back to the homey pub from my dinner with Ireland last night.

My eyes went to England as he scornfully read aloud a headline about Russia. I watched his face as annoyance gave way to slight amusement, and then a jeering smirk. I felt a smile of my own at the sight. The tan color of his suit really brought out the green in his eyes.

I suddenly realized he was looking at me. "Hm?"

"What are your thoughts?" he repeated.

I sat up a little straighter. I hadn't heard a damn word he said. "I think, if you would refrain from criticizing your allies so often, you would have more friends," I quipped.

"What are you on about?" he said a bit defensively. "You're in the United Kingdom. Then there's the Commonwealth, the League of Nations...shall I go on?"

I pressed my lips together to withhold a rude comment about the League. When a waiter arrived with our drinks, I was grateful for the extra time to formulate my response.

"'Good books, like good friends, are few and chosen,'" I quoted, rearranging my cluttered dishes. "'The more select, the more enjoyable.'"

As I poured the tiny espresso into the empty cup, England perceived that the words were not my own. "Who said that?" he asked wryly.

I carefully poured the kettle of hot water over the espresso, transforming the sludge into a more palatable state. "An American," I said pointedly.

His teacup froze halfway to his mouth. Though I had intended to annoy him, he looked quite unbothered as he maintained eye contact. He rested the cup on its saucer with a soft clatter.

"I didn't think I would see much of you after the war," he murmured.

I blinked in surprise.

"Despite its horrors, it certainly brought us closer together," he continued, his eyes narrowing.

Mine flickered away. "I...suppose it did."

His gaze lingered, causing color to rise in my cheeks. Damn him. I simmered in silent annoyance.

"All of us, that is," he continued in a businesslike tone. "I have no doubt the North Atlantic Treaty Organization will suffer the same fate as the League."