The woman at table seven orders her cortado the same way every Tuesday—extra hot, no sugar, ceramic cup only. She sits facing the door, checks her phone twice, then places it screen-down beside the untouched pastry.
I've been watching her for three months now, this ritual of waiting.
Today she's wearing the blue scarf again, the one she fidgets with when the door chimes. Her fingers trace its edges like prayer beads. The cortado grows cold.
At 11:47, she always leaves.
But today, at 11:46, the door opens. A man enters, scanning the café with the desperate look of someone perpetually late. His eyes find hers.
She doesn't wave. Doesn't smile. Just unwraps the scarf from her neck and places it on the empty chair across from her.
He sits. Orders nothing.
"I kept it," she says, pushing the scarf toward him. "Thought you might want it back."
His hands remain flat on the table. "I gave it to you."
"Before you left."
"Before you asked me to."
The silence stretches between them like a bridge neither wants to cross. I pretend to wipe down nearby tables, collecting fragments of their unfinished story.
"The apartment still smells like your coffee," she whispers.
"You always made it too weak."
She laughs—a sound like breaking glass. "Some things don't change."
"Some things do."
He stands, leaving the scarf untouched. At the door, he pauses. "Stop coming here, Carmen. It's not healthy."
After he leaves, she sits for another hour, staring at the blue fabric. Finally, she wraps it around her shoulders and walks out into the December rain.
Tomorrow is Wednesday. I wonder if she'll come anyway, ordering her cortado extra hot, ceramic cup only, still facing the door that will never open the same way twice.
Some rituals, I think, are harder to break than hearts.