One morning, as she sat in her chair peering inquisitively at the man over her newspaper, like a detective in a cheap movie, an intriguing development unfolded right before her eyes. She came in everyday herself, to eat breakfast and disconnect from it all. This had led her to the conclusion that the man was no amateur cup-balancer. She had even tried placing her cup in her own lap as an experiment, but the results had been disastrous, with a burn to the inside of her thigh and the unnecessary waste of a perfectly good cup of coffee. Or maybe it was the cup it wobbled every now and again, threatening to spill its contents all over the polished wooden floor, but it never quite got to it, staying on the man’s leg as if held there by some invisible mesh of wires. Perhaps the fact that the books he read had blank jackets, with no visible title. Perhaps the way he held his book with ease, never shifting his weight to accommodate the unavoidable build-up of tension in his arms. She didn’t think of herself as someone who might spend time fretting about strangers sitting in cafés, minding their own business. He sat in the same spot, day after day, reading his book and drinking his - whatever it was. Or was it a hot chocolate? She couldn’t really tell. Of late, she had noticed the man sitting in the back of the tea-room, a book always in his hands and a cup of coffee carefully balanced on the edge of his knee.

Ghostreader review