Anthony was an old barista. From his teenage years to his present 57 he had been taught, grown, and made to flourish under the smell of coffee beans. By marriage he had come into the comanagement of a cafe - a simple stall in the food section of a fresh produce market - and with a clean divorce it had become solely his.
He spent most of his days at the cafe. Even on the days that it was closed for business, he would come in, unveil his machines enough to make two lattes, take a cold stool for himself, lounge silently over the space and blow into his hands as the sun clambered over the horizon. While he worked at the machines he would close his eyes for the whistling of the milk and steam, and he would listen for the path of water through coffee ground; measuring the quality of pull by the weight of each drop's thunking into the mug. He felt the heat kindle and swirl throughout the tin, and he spun it until the sensation was sharp and the weight was deep. He played the crossword from the paper he bought on the way in, inhaled the coffee through the voices and the truck-beeping of the early morning workers, rinsed his mugs and left.
In operation, the cafe was busy enough. He kept a small team, half nieces and nephews, and their movements were well organised and clean. For customers, Anthony conversed primarily with perfect strangers, and this was enough. But each day brought also the familiar faces, and they would bob and surface suddenly from the smoke and movement as if stepping into a beam of light. They smiled at him, and he smiled at them, and for their alotted time together they would inspect and treasure the cafe, as if turning over family heirlooms. And the feeling was theirs to pocket for the remainder of the day, and carry in the intervals between each visit. It was a solid thing. Anthony had kept and lost as many of these regulars as he had treasured and misplaced beautiful seashells, but each new one gleamed as honestly as the last. His favourite was a young woman, named Lara.
Lara came to the cafe around afternoon, nearly twice a week. At first quiet and suspicious, she eventually emboldened herself enough to begin smiling with Anthony and enunciating her 'thank you's. It was enough for a relationship, and each time they said more than the last. She always chose a seat at the edge of the loose semicircle of tables, where the flowing crowd dipped and hummed, and she never chose the same seat twice. She would bring a book, set it down, smile and order her cappuccino, then begin reading. Anthony noted that if bothered by a sudden opening of conversation, she met attention solely with her eyes and her face, while her form never left the pages. Here and there, he would see her eyes flit up to regather her surrounds—watching the crowd and picking out pieces, or contemplating pieces of fruit, or listening to vendors' calls, and then always she would meet his gaze last, and smile before returning to her book. It made his heart swell. She stayed for a few hours each time, ordered a cappuccino for takeaway, and left.
In the reflection of each day, with the flies floating around the lampposts and the evening traffic cutting the wind, Anthony would stop briefly on each familiar face he had met. He would wipe his equipment down and empty the used grounds, and when his mind brought forth the image of Lara, sitting at the edge of the crowd, he would smile fondly, and with the fondness the day would close a good one. He walked home, slept alone, returned, and unveiled his equipment for his lattes.
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