•2 months ago•
2
•0
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.