The Way of the Word

New aquaintances, old friends

Celia Aldwick watched with a sour face as the first drops of rain pelted her with increasing strength. Fumbling in her bag for her umbrella, she instructed her feet to take her into an inconspicuous side street café as her excessively long cascade of brown hair became a mop.
As she raced to get both feet into the inviting warmth of the charming small business, she realised that they were wading in their own private puddles.
So I get the VIP treatment, do I?

Celia's fingers became entangled in her hair as it fought to cling to her face. After a few seconds of wrangling the limp strands, she felt a hand laying a gentle pressure on her right shoulder. The owner? An innocently youthful young lady who had the brightest blue eyes Celia had ever seen.
It was with these bright blue eyes that she met Celia's with an inquisitively insightful, three-dimensional gaze - the kind that asks a million questions but preempting and even knowing the response beforehand.
"Are you alright there, Miss...?" the girl asked, her clean cut formal English accent not quite piercing the air but slicing through it cleanly nonetheless.
"Celia," she smiled. "and I'm fine, thanks. Or at least I will be." Celia replied as she gratefully accepted the towel the girl was handing her.
The girl signalled for Celia to sit on the red leather-topped stool to her right.
Although normally a person who strictly kept her affairs private (and as a result never had much to call a social life), there was a convincing edge to her smile that she couldn't turn down.
"I'm Tegan." the girl began, as she followed Celia's eyes, searching her person for any clues as to her identity. With this question answered, Tegan beamed a broad and very warm smile and began searching her new friend's face for any other questions she could answer.
The conversation continued for a short while, when Tegan caught a glimpse of a pensive air about Celia. A pensive air that she recognised all too well; she had often wondered if anyone shared it with her.
"You look like something's playing on your mind. Are you okay?" she inquired, a concerned frown falling upon her petite face. She had hoped for a more elaborate answer than she received.
"Absolutely. It's just... never mind. You'll think I'm mad; everyone does." Celia sighed.
It was to this that Tegan responded with a simple hint that she knew the feeling: every time she spoke of the Government in a way that looked as though she was questioning their competence, every reply was a displeased scowl.
On hearing this, Celia's eyes grew wide and an interest began - almost magically - to change their sombre dove grey hue to a lively duck egg blue.
They almost instantly exchanged phone numbers.

***

Celia's phone rang a little after half past three. She knew exactly who it would be: for a month now, Tegan had called religiously every week and Celia eagerly anticipated every conversation they had together. She'd finally found someone in whom she could easily confide - and those people were so hard to find now the government seemed to have brainwashed the entire population.
"Hello?"
"Hi Celia. I know we said we'd meet up on Thursday, but something's come up at work."
Work. Celia didn't know much about the place in which Tegan worked - come to think of it, nothing at all! She supposed she never thought to ask for fear it might be private.
But without any further deliberation about whether such a simple question would offend Tegan or not, Celia cautiously began,
"I don't believe I know yet where you work... that is, if you don't mind me asking." - only to find the answer was,
"You've known all along: look in your bag."

Her bag?
This peculiar response intrigued Celia greatly. Vexed, she reached under the table and felt about blindly for the slightly worn fabric of which Tegan spoke. She grappled with it in her hurry, but eventually (after about two minutes of frantic rummaging) she found a slightly bent business card.
Except it wasn't exactly a business card; it was far too cryptic for that. It read:

Tegan Smith
Poet

And nothing more. Of course Celia knew what a poet was (not that she'd seen one around much) - but what could possibly come up that's so urgent when you're a poet?