A green hat, a black fur coat, long black boots. She sits by the window, stirring her coffee without drinking it.
A man in a puffy red jacket sits next to her. A third joins them a moment later, tugging off a gray scarf and carrying a large gift bag.
The man in the scarf hands the bag to the woman. She stands up and takes it with an exaggerated smile and pulls out a medium-sized red-and-green carpet. At its sight, a squeaky sound escapes her lips – sharp, high, unnecessary. Loud enough that I look up. Loud enough that I keep looking. I watch as the three of them finish their espressos.
At another table, a laptop sits open. The logo is impossible to identify under layers of pink stickers. The waiter places a drink beside it – it doesn’t really look like coffee, more whipped cream and syrup with coffee somewhere underneath. The girl behind the screen glances up briefly, nods a distracted thank you, then exhales heavily and returns to her serious face, as if the laptop has personally disappointed her.
From the mystery hallway behind the counter, a waiter storms out, visibly angry. His jaw is tight. His face is flushed.
“Why are you chasing me?” A half-bald, white-haired customer shouts.
“I just wanted to use the bathroom. It’s not a crime.”
The waiter doesn’t respond. He turns back behind the counter, slams something down. A few seconds later, a curse slips out of his mouth while the customer keeps sipping his coffee, calm, victorious.
Outside the café window, two workers appear carrying a ladder. Another follows with a box full of red decorations, cardboard hearts, teddy bears, string lights. Valentine’s things.
A girl with large brown eyes notices them. She smiles, pulls out her phone, and takes a few photos.
“A little late, aren’t you? Valentine’s is almost here,” she says loudly.
They smile back, awkwardly, and keep working.
From the corner of the café comes the most horrifying sound imaginable: a toddler crying. She clutches an iPad while her mother kneels beside her, whispering promises about getting it later, at home. The child sits empty-handed, tears streaming down her red face, her blue dress crumpled around her knees.
At a large round table, laptops multiply. Stickers. Coffee cups. Cigarette packs. Papers everywhere. No one is listening to anyone – all talking at once, voices overlapping. Each convinced their sentence matters most. Big glasses, hoodies, undone hair. Fingers moving fast, eyes glued to screens, as if life might slip past them the moment they blink.
And then there is me, in my orange beanie and black jacket, my phone flipped face-down on the table.
Across from me, my friend keeps talking, leaning forward, hands moving, completely certain I’m listening.
Something about her job. Her insufferable boss. A message she sent. A message she shouldn’t have sent. Another message she’s waiting to receive.
I nod at the right moments. I make the appropriate sounds. I look at her face. I sip my black coffee from a pink paper cup.
She doesn’t notice the green hat, the crying child, the ladder, the waiter, the laptops, the people passing through this café.
She just keeps talking, while I imagine myself sitting at every other table but this one.
