Tamora's Telepathy

Tamora had been in the Starbucks for nearly 2 hours, but, as is natural when distraction is provided in just the right abundance, she hadn’t felt the time pass as, say, the Barista awaiting the end of her shift. Boredom wasn’t in the cards for Tamora today. If she hadn’t had her headphones on, she would have heard a mediocre cover of Feeling Good, a song made famous by Nina Simone and Matt Bellamy. As it was, her ears tended towards the louder (but not loud) music of Imogen Heap.
She stared passively into the screen of her iBook G4, typing. For the time being, the subject was to be of European History, in the form of a five-point essay; rather she wrote whatever drabble came into her head. This mainly involved the topic of how bored she was.
She checked her instant messenger, but even Thian wasn’t online, which need not be said was a crime against predictability, and would probably incur a fine in the city of Irvine. So she went back to Microsoft Word, her heart heavier still.
With renewed purpose, however, she began to type fervently.

She said something about a jewellery store – I don’t know about any jewellery stores in Irvine – she said there was – how does she expect us to rob – how do you think – persuasion of an aggressive variety, then – I’m up for that.

Tamora stared at the words she had typed, but was not at all responsible for. “When?” she asked. She typed again.

Tonight – at the corner of Princeton and Culver – be there or it won’t work – how will it work – the usual – then watch me – we meet at midnight.

Tamora looked at her hands. How had she gotten into this state of mind? What had she written? Was she going mad? She had heard voices, voices in her head, but they’d seemed so real, as if they had been next to her, or talking on the telephone with her. Voices in her head, though – third sign of madness in a week.
“You’re not mad,” she told herself. “There’s some completely rational explanation. Or I’m reading someone’s mind.”
She looked at the college student (stud, more like, she thought) with the Dell laptop next to her, who was staring back at her.
“No, you really are mad,” he said.
“That might be so,” Tamora admitted. She stood up, closed her iBook, put away her headphones and the iBook in her bag and cleared out of Starbucks.