Twenty-Eight Seconds

The thing about routines is that when you’ve done them enough, each step comes as naturally to you as breathing. Breathe in. Turn on all the lights. Breathe out. Grab the float from the safe. You punch the code from muscle memory rather than the numbers themselves. Breathe in. You choose the playlist for the day; nothing too offensive. Set the volume to ambient. Breathe out. Glance outside at the deserted streets as Cigarettes After Sex croons about the apocalypse. You snort about how apt the song is and wonder if whatever barista curated this playlist made it the top song on purpose. Breathe in. Rinse and assemble portafilters. Breathe out. Fill the coffee grinder and pull a shot.

Twenty-eight seconds - the baseline for judging whether you have to adjust the grinder.

Twenty-eight seconds - how long it takes for someone to let themselves into a place they shouldn’t be. Breathe in.

“I’m sorry, but we’re not open yet.”

Breathe out. Force a smile. Look up. He’s staring right at you. He’s standing closer than the counter usually allows. Your smile falters as you place the second portafilter beneath the grinder and flinch at how loud it is. He still hasn’t said anything. You stare at the numbers on the screen. Anywhere but to your left. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Your hand trembles. Grounds spill over the rim of the basket and dust the counter.

“Shit,” you mutter, clumsily brushing them away. You wonder if you should go to the kitchen and have a conversation with the chef who won’t be here for another forty-seven minutes. His heavy breaths drag your gaze back up to him. He’s somehow even closer, his glossy black eyes still locked in a staring contest you didn’t consent to. Breathe in. Could you make a run for it? Breathe out. Do you leave the register? The café? Or do you pull the second shot?

Breathe in. You’ve been locked in here forever, and you just can’t say goodbye. How is this song still playing? The smell of espresso mixes with sweat. Is it yours or his? Thirteen minutes until opening. Will that make a difference? The streets are still barren. Your lips, my lips. Apocalypse.

Breathe out…Breathe out…

“Is anyone else here?”

Breathe out, dammit!

“Yes,” you reply, “the chef is in the back.” A lie as transparent as the ice clattering from the machine behind you. The chef is in the back. Act like it. You look at him as you would any other customer. You realise modern media coverage is as dangerous as it is useful. Sensationalism is a disease. He’s just a man. His beard isn’t “patchy”. It’s greying in places. He isn’t towering. His skin isn’t as sallow as the news described. He doesn’t look like the character they created. He’s just a man you have seen walk past the coffee shop a dozen times.

And he’s the man you’ve spent the last six months reading about.

Breathe in. They never mentioned his eyes. Now you understand why. The very way you would describe them is the reason they never could. Hollow. That’s the word. Twin black holes that you know you can’t avoid. Breathe out. You accept the fall. Breathe in. You reset the timer as it ticks over four minutes. Oh, when you’re all alone. I will reach for you. You place the portafilter beneath the grinder one last time. When you’re feeling low, I will be there too. The song finally comes to its end. Breathe out.

“Why me?” You ask, not even bothering to raise your voice over the humming of the machine, the room feels much quieter now. 18.2 grams, you pointlessly note.

He exhales. “Does it really matter?” It’s in the resignation in his voice that you realise that this, too, will fall victim to dramatisation. They’ll describe how you tried to run, or question why you didn’t. Did you try to fight back? Or were you caught off guard? It is in his tone that you find the inevitability. You could run. But where? The back doors are locked. The front doors are blocked. Even if you could get past him, the outdoor tables are still stacked across the entrance. Breathe in. You could fight back. But with that thought, you answer your own question: “Why me?” Because any moves you made now would be completely in vain. You gently grab the tamper.

“No, I suppose it doesn't,” you acquiesce. And you find not only truth in your words, but an eerie sense of comfort. Breathe out.

You aren’t shaking anymore. A hand grips your shoulder. His sleeve is stained. Breathe in. You lock the portafilter into place. You press the buttons. Breathe out.

Twenty-eight seconds.

Time is a strange thing, isn’t it? It ebbs and flows in sprinting years and dawdling hours. The machine’s hum is like a lullaby. Espresso begins to thread its way down into the waiting cup. You remember that you forgot to rinse it. It doesn’t matter now.

One second. Two.

Funny how many times you’ve stood here and watched this happen. It feels like your first shift again. Your entire focus on the two liquid gold streams. Dose. Tamp. Lock. Brew.

Five seconds.

Behind you, his hand releases your shoulder. You brace yourself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Your eyes begin to sting.

Eight seconds.

The smell of espresso fills the café. Rich. Bitter. Infused with a metallic tang. He shifts again. You’re almost eye level with the cup now. Breathe in.

Twelve seconds.

You imagine the questions they’ll ask later. Why didn’t she scream? Did she even try?

Fifteen seconds.

You ask your own questions. Is this all I will be remembered for? Should I scream? Can I scream? Breathe. Just breathe.

Nineteen seconds. Twenty.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. The machine clicks softly, and you picture the timer ticking over to twenty-five seconds. This is when the crema would look its best. Golden and floating. You feel yourself floating. Breathe out.

Twenty-seven seconds.

The espresso stops flowing with a few gentle drips. Breathe in.

Twenty-eight seconds.

The timer beeps. You feel yourself smiling. The perfect extraction.

Breathe out.