She smoothed her palm over the soft jacket, unsure what the material was: cashmere perhaps? Lifting the pointy collars she sniffed, a familiar smell. Closing her eyes. Tempera. Or wallpaint. Her husband's shirts before she did their laundry.
"What can I get you?" said the young waitress, breaking the silence.
"A double espresso please, with warm milk," she replied, then watched the waitress leave.
Behind her, the café door opened and a blonde came in. She walked straight up to Éva's table, hesitating just for a beat, then sat down beside her and opened the drinks menu. She sat with her back straight, an elegant figure in a turquoise jacket. The waitress arrived, bringing coffee and milk, and ignoring the blonde as she passed the sugar bowl, moving to give the next table a quick clean.
Éva didn't touch her coffee.
She could hear her own heartbeat.
There was a sad look about the blonde, her face paler than in memory, crow's feet creasing around her eyes. And everything took its ordered course, same as always. Even over the throbbing coffee machines she could hear her heartbeat, growing louder and faster. A few seconds and they were breathing to the same rhythm. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. The breathing bound them, one body, one mind. Breathe in, one body. Breathe out, one mind.  They couldn't tell who was who, reality and the hazy dimension of pain became indistinguishable.
The tinkling sound of the entrance bell jarred her back into her body.
She looked around. The café was empty, only the young waitress still busy behind the bar. She downed her espresso, paid and started for home.
Back home hanging her coat, she noticed a split in the seams, right at the armpit, showing a finger's width of lining. These splits appear ever so deviously, along glass, or a coat, or a heart.

translated by Dani Dányi