“Two Lattes.”
“Good evening, Margaret! The usual two lattes, I suppose?” I asked with a smile, peering anxiously at the small, deeply lined face of the latecomer—wrinkled but still full of charm.
“Hello, Lizzie dear! Yes, as always, two lattes. Be a love and fetch me a cinnamon bun too, would you?” Margaret wobbled slightly as she hooked her cane over the back of the chair, suppressing a wince as she lowered herself into her usual seat by the window.
“We were all worried when you didn’t show up at your usual time. What happened? You’d never forget what day it is. I even ran outside, hoping to catch sight of you,” I said, pausing just long enough to wave over the new waitress.
“Oh, sweetheart! What you’re thinking will happen to me eventually—just not today,” Margaret chuckled, though exhaustion clung to her. “Blame the cash machine. Swallowed my card this morning, so I had to queue at the bank for a new one. Must’ve been the day every pensioner in town decided to move their life savings!”
Her hands, always in black lace gloves, trembled slightly. The corners of her mouth turned down, and her thin face looked more sunken than usual. Age was doing her no favours, sadly.
I’d been managing this little café in the heart of Oxford, a city that cradled secrets and confessions like old books on a shelf. I’d started working here at fifteen, desperate to earn enough for Mum’s new phone. I scrubbed floors and washed dishes before graduating to waitressing.
After school, I studied psychology at university—distance learning, so I could still clock in here. This café, where rich coffee breathes life into weary souls, sharpens my people-watching skills. It’s fascinating—reading moods before words are spoken, dodging misunderstandings before they happen.
We get all sorts here: rowdy teens, couples lost in each other’s eyes, ladies clinging to silver-haired gentlemen, and young mums wrangling curious toddlers.
But years ago, I met the most striking couple—a towering, silver-haired man and his wife, who defied time with quiet grace. Rain or shine, every Saturday, Margaret and Edmund would stroll through Oxford’s winding lanes and stop here for coffee, an unshakable ritual.
“You’re freezing, you stubborn thing,” Edmund would scold, glancing at her with a half-smile. “Told you to bring an umbrella. My knees ached all last night—but no, you insisted, ‘It won’t rain.’ So who was right, eh?”
Margaret would sip her latte, pinky poised, replying with mock indignation, “I’m not made of sugar, love. Won’t melt.”
“Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten last autumn—splashing through puddles like a child, then coughing for a month,” he’d grumble, stirring sugar into his cup. “At our age, you can’t afford to be reckless.”
“Oh, stop fussing like an old hen,” she’d laugh, eyes twinkling. “Order me another bun instead. They’re heavenly.”
Edmund would watch, delighted, as she took a blissful bite, humming some tune under her breath.
“I love watching you eat,” he’d murmur. “How you stay so slim is beyond me. Jealous, really—ever since the surgery, I’ve got no appetite left.”
A year ago, Edmund passed. But Margaret still comes—same time, same seat. She orders two lattes, drinks one, and leaves the other untouched. Stirring sugar, she gazes out the window, waiting. Sometimes she cries, dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief.
I never interrupt. Some memories aren’t for sharing.
One day, she let me in, just a little.
She’d met Edmund in the Bodleian Library. He’d caught her when she toppled off a ladder, books scattering. “Are you hurt?” he’d asked, steadying her. She’d been mortified—her dress hitched up, his eyes dark and warm. She drowned in them, she said.
They married within months. “I just knew,” she told me. “Even when we fought, the fog always cleared. I never doubted.”
When she was ill, he’d bring her tea with honey, tuck blankets around her. “I miss him, Lizzie. Half of me is gone.”
The café owner offered to waive her bill more than once. She always refused. “Everything has its price.”
Now, she pays, leans on her cane, and shuffles out. I watch her go, tears blurring my vision. I want faith like hers.
Two cups sit on the table—one empty, one full.
While people like Margaret exist, there’s still reason to live. And love. Always love.
