Page 19 of Pretend You Love Me

I look up from the napkin dispenser. “It’s Tuesday,” I point out. “We play jazz on Tuesdays.”

“Jazz is emotionally neutral,” Luca says, pulling out his phone and connecting it to the speakers. “I am many things, Els, but emotionally neutral is not currently on the list.”

And then music fills the café, something with a strong beat and a woman singing about burning things to the ground, and Luca is already in motion, pulling shots and steaming milk with fluid precision. He moves through the space like he’s conducting a one-man theatrical production, his hands shaping the air as he counts seconds, his expression changing with each new song.

I leave him to it, checking the day’s event board (Book club at two, children’s story hour at four, open mic at six) and restocking the new releases shelf with titles I personally love but will describe to Luca as “diversifying our stock for maximum customer appeal.” The café is quiet except for the music and the soft sounds of Luca preparing for the day, and there’s something peaceful about the routine.

Maisie makes a small sound from her carrier, not quite fussing, more like the verbal equivalent of clearing her throat, and I glance over to find her watching me. One tiny eyebrow raised, her head tilted slightly, her entire demeanour suggesting she’s noticed an irregularity in my actions and is waiting for an explanation.

“Yes, I see you,” I tell her, reaching for the bottle I prepped this morning. “And I’m aware that it’s been seventeen minutes since your last feeding, which is technically three minutes longer than the recommended interval. I’ll add it to my review.”

She blinks at me, once, slowly, like she’s deciding if that’s acceptable.

Luca catches my eye from across the counter, raises an eyebrow at the exchange, and then jerks his chin toward the front window, where a woman in a red coat is already standing, checking her watch with impatience of someone who’s very aware that the sign clearly says “Open at 7:00”. I shrug, reaching for the keys, it’s 6:53, which is close enough, and Luca responds with a nod so slight it’s barely perceptible.

The woman in the red coat orders a complicated drink involving oat milk, three separate syrups, and what sounds like an entire spice rack. Luca looks at me. We’ve had this same wordless conversation a hundred times. Seven years of friendship had given us a language of raised eyebrows that meant, *She’s going to be trouble*, and a subtle shake of the head that meant, *Don’t you dare*. He could read my exhaustion from across the room; I could see a bad day looming in the set of his shoulders. It was a language more efficient than words, and twice as entertaining.

The café fills in its usual morning rhythm. First the commuters, treating coffee like a medical intervention. Then the parents, operating in the brief window before the next emotional reset. Finally, the freelancers and students, staking claim to tables for the price of a single latte. I know all their orders, the small rituals that make up their mornings and, in turn, make up mine.

I cannot, however, tell you what I had for breakfast. Or if I had breakfast at all. My brain has apparently decided that the coffee preferences of strangers are more worthy of storage space than my own basic nutritional needs.

A man in his sixties, balding with glasses, a beard that suggests he’s given up on certain social conventions but still cares deeply about others, orders his usual (medium black, no sugar) and then notices Milo, who’s making unhappy noises from his position on the play mat. Without interrupting his conversation with Luca about the weather, the man starts making faces, exaggerated expressions involving his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth, that are clearly aimed at my son. He is not looking around to see if anyone’s watching. Just automatically responding to a baby’s distress in the way that warms me from the inside out at the general consideration.

Milo stops fussing, transfixed by this unexpected development, and the man nods once, satisfied, before turning back to the counter to collect his coffee.

This is our small part of the world. This is what it feels like to be in a community.

Not the careful show that is currently my marriage, not the hollow space where trust used to be. Just this, the piece of space where I am who I am, where my children are welcome just as they are, where the morning unfolds in the comfortable rhythm of a place that feels like home.

It won’t last. Nothing does. In forty-five minutes, I’ll check my phone and see a text from Daniel about dinner, and the hollow feeling will return. In two hours, I’ll remember that Clara wants the bank statements by Friday, and my chest will tighten with anxiety of being reminded of another aspect of his betrayal. In eight hours, I’ll go home to a house that feels like a set and a husband who doesn’t know he’s already a stranger.

But for now, for these few perfect minutes, I am where I’m supposed to be.

The morning rush is just winding down when the bell above the door chimes and a handsome man walks in. He’s alone, no phone in hand, just a paperback he keeps face-down on the table between sips. He crosses directly to the window seat to place down the paperback, the same one he’s chosen twice already this week, with the confidence of someone who knows what he wants and has absolutely no interest in making a show out of getting it.

I watch him from behind the counter, my hands moving automatically through the motions of wiping down the espresso machine. He’s wearing a grey jumper over a blue button-down, both of which look like they were bought at least five years ago and then deliberately broken in through actual use rather than expensive distressing. His hair is slightly too long and has a small cowlick at the crown that he’s made no apparent effort to tame. I try to avoid staring as he turns back towards the counter.

“Flat white and a slice of banana bread, please,” he says when he reaches the counter, his voice measured and quiet. Not the softness some men use when ordering, like they’re asking for something personal rather than just coffee. Just the tone of someone who uses manners regularly and doesn’t expect anything else.

“Coming right up, name for the order” I say, and he answers politely “Noah,” before returning to the window seat.

Luca clocks him immediately. I’m not even halfway through pulling his shot when my best friend appears beside me, his eyes fixed on the window seat like he has just spotted a particularly juicy piece of gossip.

“Window guy has been here three times this week,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial as he loads portafilters. “Three times, Els. Always alone. Always reading. Always in that same seat.”

“Lots of people like to read,” I say, trying to ignore the fact that I’ve noticed the same pattern. Or that he seems as interested in staring at me as I have been at him.

“I don’t trust emotionally stable-looking men,” Luca continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “It feels highly suspect”

I laugh despite myself, a startled sound that sadly ends with a half-snort. “Go make someone a coffee,” I tell him, nodding toward the customer waiting by the pastry case. “Preferably someone who isn’t standing right next to you.”

He goes, but not without one last look at the window seat, his expression suggesting he’s already planning what kind of cake to serve at our hypothetical wedding. I shake my head, focus on the drink in front of me, and try very hard not to notice that Noah is reading with his full attention, not checking his phone between paragraphs, not looking restless when the queue backs up and the café gets loud.

Five minutes later, as I’m carrying his flat white to the window seat, Noah glances up from his book with the quiet attention of a person who’s simply been daydreaming about being somewhere else and has now returned. He moves his chair a few inches without looking up so a woman with a pram can get past more easily, no eye contact sought, no acknowledgment expected. He says “thank you” when I set his coffee down, just a simple acknowledgement with a smile.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” I say, the standard line I’ve delivered a hundred times this morning, and he smiles again before returning to his book, already absorbed again.

None of this is romantic. It’s just noticeable. In weeks where I’ve been cataloguing Daniel’s betrayals with the careful attention of someone planning a hostile takeover, there’s something almost jarring about watching someone who simply takes up the exact amount of space they need and no more.