My Little Cafe

Most of my day is spent watching people walk through the same glass door. Usually I knew them, but once in awhile someone new surprised me. Without any warning, someone new will inevitably walk through the door and suddenly everything is different because of it. For better or for worse; someone new breaks the routine, changes the scene somehow, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The door doesn’t even matter. There was a moment like that for me the other day where I was just sitting in my cafe, like I do every day, and a young woman with short black hair made the spontaneous decision to come inside for a coffee. I greeted her. She didn’t do anything different from anyone else, she simply waltzed in hoping to try something new. This woman, she looked around the room in a sort of casual, scrutinizing way, like the way you would visiting a friend’s home for the first time. She didn’t order right away, but approached me behind the counter and asked, “Who took those pictures on the wall?” 

“I did,” I said. Nobody had ever asked me about them before.

She pursed her lips into a doubtful smile, “You did? Really?”

This caught me off guard. Whoever this woman was, I watched her skepticism ooze out into her sharp features. Her brow furrowed, her eyes darted around the room from one photograph to the next. There were about a dozen enlarged photographs that I had captured, edited, and displayed within the four small confining walls of my cafe. They were nothing exciting, several shots of latte art I had done, a few dogs that frequented the cafe, and a particular favorite of mine, two chess rivals engaged in a game in the corner table. 

When this woman finally ordered, a small almond milk latte, she sat across from me at the counter and continued to look around for a bit.

“How did you get that one?” She asked pointing at a photograph of a black Shih Tzu hovering over a croissant with his tongue hanging out. “It’s so good.”

“The dog did most of the work,” I replied. Another customer walked in. “Excuse me.”

The young woman with her wavy dark hair clutched her cup and watched my next interaction. She had a hard to place Latin accent but I wouldn’t have the chance to ask her about it until much later. I wished I could keep more people from entering, control who came in and when so that I could continue talking with her uninterrupted, but there wasn’t much besides the espresso machine I could control. I’ve tried. I wasn’t going to be rich like my best friend from high school. I wasn’t going to have a family like my ex girlfriend dreamed for us but who eventually found a man that was not plagued with indecision. The family I was born with was no longer around. I wasn’t planning any trips any time soon since my car had broken down outside the theatre a few months back. No, everything I had, and everything I could control was right there in front of me. This little space I rented out for my coffee shop.and maybe the interactions and experiences with the people that walked in. I just couldn’t control who walked through that door or when.

The woman’s eyes flashed curiously as she watched me greet one of my regulars. A tall, slender Arab businessman. “How’s it going today, man?”

“So far, so good, brother. Just the coffee today.” He smiled at the woman next to him at the counter. I turned around to craft the same extra hot cappuccino I made for him at least five times a week. He gave me a five dollar bill and I handed back the change.

“See you tomorrow, Mark.”

“I’ll be here.”

Mark dropped the extra coins in the tip jar and went out the door.

The woman resumed when the door closed, “You never told me where you learned to take pictures like that. Were you a photographer or something?”

“No. I learned it from someone.”

“From who?”

At this point I gathered she wanted me to tell her that it was all a ruse, that I had found all of the photographs online. I was actually just an actor playing a role and she walked in on a set. Mark was the producer.

“An old friend from the city that worked for a magazine. He used to critique photographs I took for fun,” I said, turning away again to clean up the espresso machine.

“Where is your friend now?”

“I think he’s still in prison.”

“Oh,” was all she could muster. 

I was waiting for her to ask me why he was in prison but she never did. She was only interested in one thing.

“When do you have time to take pictures?”

“You can see it’s not always so busy here.”

“Are you here a lot?”

“All day, every day.”

“Can you do one of me?”

“You want me to take your picture?”

“Yes,” she said, quickly pointing to a blank space on the wall above the door.” You can hang it over there.”

“Why?”

“That space is empty.”

“No, why do you want your picture on the wall?”

“It’s a memory of the cafe, isn’t it?

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

She started posing at the counter with her coffee.

“Not here,” I said. “The lighting is not good. I have an idea.”

I guided her away from the counter and directed her to act like she was leaving the cafe so that the light coming in from outside would better highlight her petite frame. I took out my phone, opened the camera, and placed her figure within the outline of the door frame. She was not too tall, or too short, and maybe not so bad either. She tilted her head ever so slightly while squeezing her latte.

“Perfect,” I said. “Stay there.”

When I was done, I picked out the best one out of a dozen attempts and showed her. It was my new favorite photo. I don’t think either of us thought it would turn out so well.

“That’s amazing,” she exclaimed. “And the coffee is really good. I’ll see you.”

As she was motioning to leave, another customer coming in opened the door for her, and the woman I had just met crossed the threshold back into the world, closing the door behind her.