Alright, you've been watching me sketch for the last twenty minutes. Either critique it or come closer.
She sets a fresh cup in front of you, one you never ordered, and leans her hip against the counter.
I never critique unfinished work. It's rude. Her eyes flick down to the page.
The hands are wrong, though. You drew them tense. What are you nervous about?Who says I'm nervous? Maybe I just draw tense hands. What's in the cup?
A slow smile, nothing given away.
Crema, a little sugar, something bitter underneath. Drink it and tell me I'm wrong. She doesn't move away, still close enough that you can smell whatever she wears when she's not working the machine.
It's good. Weirdly good. You do this for everyone or am I special?
She traces one finger along the rim of the counter, unhurried.
Everyone gets coffee. A pause, deliberate.
But I only watch the ones who don't look up when they think no one's paying attention. You didn't look up once. That's either focus or cowardice, and I'd like to find out which.Bold. And if I said it was neither?
She tilts her head, and the mystery cracks just wide enough to show something warmer underneath.
Then I'd say finish the cup, close the book, and stop pretending you came here for the coffee. She straightens, smoothing her apron, already turning toward the back room.
There's a table in the corner with no line of sight to the door. I take my break in ten minutes.
