Puzzles

He knows she enjoys crosswords – she annoys Robert by downloading them from the internet and printing them off. She does all the across clues before her first cup of coffee, and then moves onto the down clues. Sometimes he times her for his own amusement. Last Tuesday it took her 10 minutes, but only because she couldn't remember the synonym for “isotherm”. This morning the printer malfunctioned, and she was forced to drink her coffee while staring at the ceiling.

He doesn't know if it's the routine she likes: scribble, sip, scribble; her mind racing along a few minutes ahead of her pencil. Perhaps she just finds it comforting, faithfully filling out blank squares, knowing that each answer leads to another, and that in the end a solution is sure to reveal itself. He could ask her why she enjoys her crossword, but he prefers to observe her murmuring to herself, observe her slight smirk on a Monday (apparently Monday's cruciverbalist is a pushover, preferring clues about dogs), and smiles at her frustration on Sunday (Sunday's cruciverbalist is a sadist, she says, and she is usually only saved by her esoteric knowledge of 18th century furniture).

She doesn't always finish her crosswords. She doesn't throw the unfinished ones away though. He's pretty sure he saw her dig last Wednesday's out of her bag when she went to the bar to get a round of drinks. He wondered what the clue was. Casting his thoughts back to the ribald and inane conversation junior sailors tend to have on shore leave, he's at a loss. Sharks, motorcycles and the cheapest hotels in Bangkok don't tend to make an appearance on a crossword. She likes British crosswords over the ones in the local papers. She doesn't do cryptics. He's not sure why.

And he doesn't quite understand. He likes a pub quiz himself, although it's been a while since he's allowed himself to indulge in one. His strengths are cricket players of the 1950s, Queen's greatest hits, and Humphrey Bogart movies. He doesn't like picture rounds – the sweet young things all look alike to him, and he was never much cop at identifying foreign world leaders.

He's tried his hand at sudoku, but the logic infuriates him. He would prefer to calculate the numbers, like a brainteaser, to manipulating them into place. Occasionally he teases out the chess problems in the Post's letter pages, but strategy is for real life, not a game board. The Rubik's cube on his desk he appreciates. He likes the ongoing thought process of it all, that with a few quick random twists he could be on the path to even colours and peaceful order.

Crosswords are a known and unknown entity. Last Saturday he got to spend a rare day at home. His plans for the day included catching up on the Ashes highlights package and running to earth his other hat. He last saw it in the garage. He thinks. His plans for the day did not include printing off The Guardian's daily quick crossword and making a cup of coffee. He lasted 5 minutes before carefully placing the printed paper down on the table and deciding to search for the hat instead.

It was too hard not to imagine her there: scribble, sip, scribble. Chewing the end of her pencil as she works out the angles. “Lead poisoning,” he imagines himself warning her. “Graphite,” his imagination answers him swiftly, smiling at him as only his imagination allows. It's why he doesn't ask questions about her crossword, tease her about her morning ritual, or tell her how long it took her to untangle 6 down yesterday (2 minutes, 9 letters, the scientific name for a llama). He can't ask her a question, because once he starts he won't be able to stop, and there are questions that demand answers that can't be resolved here.

So he keeps his questions to himself, but finds out from Robert if the printer is working again. He quietly passes her the printed sheet with her mid-morning cuppa. She chuckles and reaches for a pencil. He stares straight ahead at the turbulent grey ocean, and starts the timer on his watch.