Espresso Your Heart

The morning rush at Pages & Lattes was always a theatrical performance in its own right, and I, behind the espresso machine, played the lead role of barista-poet. Each customer was an audience member to whom I served not only coffee but also snippets of poetry, hoping to brighten their day. Today, though, my usual enthusiasm for performing was overshadowed by the anticipation of the arrival of someone special.

As I handed over a latte to Mr. Jenkins, a regular who seemed to survive solely on caffeine and crossword puzzles, I quipped, “Sir, remember, even Shakespeare said, ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.’” He chuckled, tapping his watch and assuring me he was well ahead of schedule.

Stealing a moment between orders, I glanced at the small mirror tucked beside the espresso machine, checking my reflection. My curly dark hair was a bit unruly, a trademark I hadn’t quite managed to tame, and there was a smudge of flour on my cheek from the morning’s pastry setup. Quickly, I tried to pat my hair down and wipe my face clean, hoping to look somewhat presentable for when she walked in.

The bell above the door chimed melodically, a sound I had become finely attuned to. I glanced over, hoping it was her. My heart skipped a beat—it was Ava. She walked in, as always, like a breath of fresh air, her presence subtly shifting the atmosphere of the cafe. Trying to appear casual, I focused on taking the next order, but my attention was hopelessly split.

Allie, catching my divided attention, leaned closer and whispered with a grin, “She’s not going to evaporate, Jamie. Just go say hi already.” Her playful teasing was a lifeline back to reality, though my pulse begged to differ. Allie’s straight black hair was pulled back into a ponytail today, her sharp blue eyes scanning the room with an efficiency that made her an exceptional coworker.

From my vantage point behind the counter, I watched as Ava chose her usual spot by the window. Today, she was ethereal, sunlight catching the hints of gold in her long brown hair. She was dressed simply in a flowing blue blouse and jeans, which complemented her calm, composed demeanour. Her green eyes, always observing, flicked across the cafe with an interest that seemed to touch everything with significance.

I continued with my duties, a smile here, a verse there. “A scone to accompany your tale, madam?” I offered to Mrs. Ellis, who was deeply engrossed in a mystery novel. “After all, as Byron said, ‘All tragedies are finished by a death, all comedies by a marriage.’” Her laughter filled the space, her delight in the small jest evident.

Finally, gathering my courage and a cup of cappuccino—her usual order—I approached Ava. The closer I got, the more my rehearsed words began to fumble in my mind. “Your latte, Ava,” I said, realizing too late that I’d handed her a cappuccino. My face heated up at the mistake.

She looked up, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I hope this latte hasn’t forgotten it’s actually a cappuccino,” she teased, her voice light and teasing.

The error broke the ice, and I laughed, more at ease. “You caught me—I was testing you,” I managed to joke back. Our shared laughter felt like a small victory, a moment of connection in the usual order of things.

As I walked back to the counter, Allie was leaning against it with an all-too-knowing smirk plastered on her face. She watched me approach, her eyebrow arching in amusement. “Well, well, if it isn’t Jamie the Jester, back from the royal court,” she teased, wiping down an already spotless section of the counter.

I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my flushed cheeks. “Don’t start, Allie. It was just a simple mix-up,” I muttered, grabbing a cloth to busy myself with something, anything really.

“Just a mix-up, huh?” She chuckled, shaking her head. “You turn into a walking, talking Shakespeare play every time she’s around. What’s next? Reciting sonnets with her espresso?”

“Keep it up, and I’m assigning you all the toilet cleaning for a month,” I threatened playfully, though we both knew I wouldn’t dare.

Allie laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, no more teasing. But seriously, Jamie, it’s cute. You two are like characters straight out of one of your beloved novels.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that, though the butterflies in my stomach were more like rampant dragons at this point. Taking a deep breath, I readied myself to step away from the safety of the counter once more. “Speaking of novels,” I started, trying to regain my composure as I noticed the elderly couple making their way to their favorite corner table, “I need to make sure our regulars get their usual royal treatment.”

With a final pat on my back from Allie, I headed over to greet them. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, hand in hand as always, were settling into their seats, their presence a comforting constant in the cafe. “Good morning, you two. The usual today?” I asked, my voice returning to its usual, confident barista tone.

“Of course, Jamie. And maybe one of your delightful little verses to go with our tea?” Mrs. Hamilton replied, her eyes twinkling with gentle mirth.

I grinned, already flipping through my mental anthology for the perfect lines. “Certainly, Mrs. Hamilton. How about a little Keats today? ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’ Quite fitting for such a lovely day, don’t you think?”

As they nodded in approval, pleased with the selection, I turned back to the counter, catching Allie’s eye. She gave me a thumbs up, her earlier teasing replaced with a supportive smile.

As Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton sipped their tea, content with their daily dose of Keats, the morning rush began to die down. The clock ticked past the peak hours, and the constant flow of customers slowed to a trickle. The café’s atmosphere settled into a quieter hum, the earlier rush of orders and greetings fading into a more relaxed murmur. It was moments like these I cherished the most at Pages & Lattes—the lull that allowed for deeper connections.

I wiped my hands on my apron, my eyes scanning the café until they landed on Ava. She was still engrossed in her book, her brow occasionally furrowing in concentration. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed a clean mug and began making another cappuccino—her favorite, not that she needed another just yet, but it gave me a pretext to approach her without seeming too forward.

As the espresso machine hissed and steamed, I practiced what I might say in my head. Something about her book? A light tease about her people-watching? The coffee was ready sooner than I’d have liked, leaving little time to perfect my approach. Taking a deep breath, I picked up the cup and made my way over to her table.

“Thought you might enjoy a refill,” I said, setting the cappuccino down gently in front of her. “And maybe a bit of company, unless you’re too deep into the minds of Austen’s characters?”

Ava looked up, her initial surprise shifting to a warm smile. “Thanks, Jamie. I was actually just taking a break,” she said, marking her page with a finger. “And yes, Austen’s minds are fascinating, but observing real people... that’s even more intriguing, don’t you think?”

I nodded, pulling up a chair, intrigued by her insight. “So, the psychologist in you must enjoy this place quite a bit then—plenty of subjects to study and behaviors to analyze.”

“Yes, exactly!” she laughed. “It’s like a live lab experiment. Everyone brings their own stories, their quirks. And the barista-poet adds a unique variable to the mix.”

I chuckled, pleased she’d noticed the poetry. “Guilty as charged. But I hope it’s a positive variable in your observations.”

“Definitely,” Ava assured me, her eyes sparkling with sincerity. “It’s refreshing, actually. Your interactions with the customers, the way you seem to really see them, not just serve them—it’s rare.”

We talked more about her studies then, about psychology and literature, and how closely the two can be intertwined. As she spoke, I couldn’t help but admire the way her mind worked, the way she could peel back layers of human behaviour and find the core. It wasn’t just her beauty or her intellect that drew me in; it was her genuine passion for understanding people, for seeing beyond the surface.

The café remained quiet, a serene backdrop to our conversation. It was easy to forget the time, to get lost in discussion, and I found myself hoping these moments would stretch on indefinitely. But as the lunch crowd began to filter in, breaking our little bubble, Ava packed up her things.

“Thanks for the coffee—and the company,” she said, standing. “It was a really nice break from the usual study session.”

“Anytime, Ava. Really, anytime,” I replied, feeling a mix of disappointment and elation. She smiled, a promise of more conversations to come, and with a final wave, she was gone.

The café began to fill again, the lunch crowd bringing with it a gentle din that demanded my attention away from the remnants of our conversation. It wasn’t until the flow of patrons ebbed once more that I had the chance to clear her table. As I gathered her empty cup and the few crumbs left from a pastry, a small piece of paper caught my eye. It was tucked under the saucer, almost escaping notice.

Curious, I picked it up. It was another one of her notes, these little glimpses into her thoughts that she somehow always left behind. I unfolded it, and a smile tugged at my lips. The note was about me—or rather, the “barista-poet,” as she referred to me. She’d scribbled down observations about how I interacted with the elderly couple earlier, noting,

The barista shows a high level of empathy and engagement with his customers. His humorous yet sincere approach not only elevates the mood of the patrons but seems to create a micro-community within the café. It’s both fascinating and endearing to watch.

Her words, analytical yet affectionate, warmed me more deeply than I expected. She saw the effort I put into making each interaction meaningful, and she appreciated it—not just as a casual observer, but through her psychologist’s lens. It was a peculiar feeling, knowing I was both a subject of study and someone she might consider a friend—or perhaps something more.

I folded the note carefully and tucked it into my pocket, adding it to my small collection of Ava’s musings. Each one was a treasure, a small confirmation that our interactions held meaning. They were clues to the puzzle she presented, insights into her thoughts and perhaps the beginnings of understanding what might lie ahead for us.

As I finished wiping down her table and looked around the now quiet café, I realized that these little notes were more than just forgotten scraps of paper. They were a silent dialogue between us, waiting to be continued with words spoken aloud. And I was more than ready to engage in that conversation, to explore the depths of her observations and maybe, in the process, reveal a bit of my own heart.

After my shift I bid goodbye to Allie, who had a double today and began to head out. I still have literature classes to go to. Ava’s note was a gentle weight against my chest as I walked home, each step lighter with the anticipation of our next meeting. The possibilities seemed endless, and for the first time in a long while, the future felt not just hopeful, but exciting.

Maybe I should ask her out?