Quarter Past Ten
He enters the coffee shop that’s humming with the sounds of belated birthday wishes and exclaims of “it’s been so long!” His eyes scan the small space, and he heads with intention to the bench in the corner. The perfect seat for a spectator. He’s hidden away so he doesn’t become a distraction, but he can hear and observe any and all encounters.
He states his coffee order, but the barista is already foaming the milk for his extra strong, oat milk latte. He’s a regular here. Comes here often. He has a routine with a favourite spot. The regular coffee drinker who sits at the same bench, with the same drink and the same motions. He’s so regular that he can differentiate the coffee based on its’ maker. He has a preference of course. But that is out of his control.
One has to wonder whether the rest of his life, outside this coffee shop, is as structured at this. Does he take the same route and listen to the same song as he walks past the same parks? Maybe his heart regulates to the pace of his walk, to the time of the day. This all seems very silly and unlikely and yet...
He is given his coffee, and he slides it to the side with a mechanical motion. His shoulders almost slump as the coffee cup is placed in its perfect position. Without looking, he raises it to his lips and takes his first sip. Placing it back onto the saucer, just so, he reaches into his angular bag and pulls out an equally angular notebook and pen and opens it to a crisp page, dating it at the top right corner. For the next hour his head remains bent, breaking intermittently for a sip of coffee and wandering eyes. No one knows what he fills those pages with. Sketches, poems, writings. Are they of us? The workers or the sitters? Or do they hold no resemblance to the place in which he sits? It all remains hidden, and when he is finished, he closes the book with a snap and places it neatly back into his bag.
He stretches his neck and arches his back with a yawn. He stands and returns the coffee cup to the bench and leaves with a nod.
His hour is up and he leaves the shop at a brisk pace. He never leaves a mess or forgets a pen, but even if he did, we know we’ll see him again, tomorrow, at the exact time—quarter past ten.
Cover Photo by Michael Burrows. Edited by Madison Case.