The bell over the door jingles softly as I finish wiping down the counter, the warmth of the cafe slowly building against the evening chill outside. Paul is already at the espresso machine, humming something jazzy under his breath as he pours two cappuccinos for a couple sitting by the window. The shift has been smooth so far, quiet in the early hours but beginning to swell with the usual evening crowd.
Then, he walks in. The familiar old man with same flat hat he always wears.
That man usually sits at the same corner table, by the bookshelf with the flickering reading lamp. His coat is worn but neat, folded carefully over the back of the chair. He doesn't look around much, just nods at Paul and me before settling down and lifting the steaming Americano we've already set on his table. No sugar, no milk. Just strong, bitter coffee.
