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The longer Eve sits across from Jahseh, with his perfect posture and his moisturised skin and his apparent immunity to the littlest bag of sleeplessness beneath either of his eyes, the more she finds herself compelled to accept she is in no way, shape or harrowing form a morning person. Not against Jahseh, who drinks up the cafe's poor lighting and the daybreak's mist like some undiscovered paragon, unstirred by the sky-splitting crack of dawn or both their slumbers cut avoidably short.
Eve finds that Abbey Wood is somehow twice as peopled at its darkest hour of the night than six hours deep into the morning stretch, where the closest thing you get to pedestrians are the hi-vis garbed cyclists that circle the roundabout and hurtle up the dual carriageway every five odd minutes, sweat bleeding from every pore one has to offer and thighs pumped to the point of no return, only to crumble at the mercy of their AM shifts in any one of Abbey Wood's graveyard of warehouses.
When it comes to early rises, Jahseh quickly grasps that Eve is every bit the Debbie Downer.
"When you said breakfast, you really meant breakfast."
"How you mean?"
He glances her way, but focuses ultimately on his menu. Eve had barely thumbed through it upon their arrival—there's not much else to get besides a Full English and a cuppa. And even so, it holds Jahseh's focus like there's gold in it.
