TWO LATTES.
“Good evening, Margaret Elizabeth! The usual two lattes?” I asked with a smile, studying the small, deeply lined face of the late customer—a face that had lost none of its charm despite the years.
“Hello, dear Lizzie! Yes, the usual, two lattes. And be a love, would you? Fetch me a cinnamon bun as well.”
Margaret Elizabeth leaned her cane against the chair and, suppressing a wince, eased herself into her usual seat by the window.
“We were all wondering what could’ve kept you today. Surely you wouldn’t forget what day it is? I even ran outside hoping to spot you,” I said, pausing to give instructions to the new waitress.
“Oh, sweetheart! What you’re thinking will happen to me sooner or later, but *when*—well, that’s anyone’s guess. Don’t fret, Lizzie—simple explanation. This morning, I went to collect my pension, and the blasted machine swallowed my card! Had to trudge to the bank, queue for hours. Seems every old dear in the borough chose today, of all Saturdays, to move fortunes about!” She joked, but exhaustion clung to her.
Her hands, always gloved in black lace, trembled. The corners of her mouth sagged, her pale, delicate face hollowed. Age spares no one, alas.
I’m the manager of a small café in the heart of London. This city, dear to me, guards countless secrets—but more on that later.
I started working at fifteen, eager to earn enough for my mother’s new phone. I walked into this café and offered my services. At first, they had me scrubbing floors and dishes, then, after training, promoted me to waitress.
After school, I enrolled in university to study psychology. Distance learning lets me balance studies with what I call “life practice” here in the café. It’s where locals and visitors alike sip drinks brewed from rich coffee beans—reviving weary souls, stirring memories tucked away in the mind’s corners, where dreams dwell unseen.
People-watching became my fascination. I read moods, anticipate needs, smoothing over misunderstandings before they flare.
Our customers are a lively mix: boisterous teens, quiet couples lost in each other’s eyes, young ladies with silver-haired gentlemen, and mums wrangling curious toddlers.
Early in my career, I met a striking couple. A tall, silver-haired man and a woman clinging fiercely to her allure. Rain or shine, every Saturday, they’d stroll the cobbled lanes arm-in-arm and stop by for coffee—their weekly ritual, unshaken by anything. Well, nearly anything.
“You’re freezing, you stubborn creature—my partner in crime! I *told* you to bring an umbrella. My knees ached last night, and you swore it wouldn’t rain. Who was right, eh?” Thomas Alfred grumbled, watching his wife sip her coffee, pinkie poised.
“So what? I’m not sugar—I won’t melt,” she retorted.
“Forgotten last autumn? Prancing through puddles like a child, then bedridden with bronchitis for a month! Must I remind you?” he fumed. “At our age, we can’t afford recklessness.”
“Oh, stop fussing, you old worrywart! Order me another bun—they’re divine.”
Like the queen herself, she’d nod graciously. He’d stir sugar into her cup, eyes never leaving her, then watch, delighted, as she savoured each bite, humming softly.
“I love watching you eat,” he’d say. “Better than eating myself. Where do you put it all? And never a pound gained! Meanwhile, since my operation, I force every bite.”
A year ago, Thomas Alfred passed. But Margaret Elizabeth still comes, same time, same order: two lattes. She drinks one. The other sits untouched.
She sits by the window, stirs her coffee, and stares outside as if waiting. Sometimes she weeps, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. I never intrude—those memories are hers alone. Dreams lived can’t be sold at auction or bought for any price.
Once, she confided in me.
Shy, eighteen-year-old Margaret met Thomas in the library. He’d walked in just as she tumbled from a ladder.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he’d asked. “I was speechless—my dress hitched up, and I burned with shame. Then he lifted me, and I saw his eyes. To say I was charmed? An understatement. His voice—like velvet—unraveled me.”
They married three months later. “I just *knew*,” she said. “When I fell ill, he brought me tea with honey, tucked blankets around me. I miss him, Lizzie. Half of me is gone. But I’ll see him again. Till then… I endure.”
The café owner often offers her drinks on the house. She always refuses. “Everything in life comes at a price.”
Today, paid up, cane in hand, she shuffled out. I watched her go, hunched and slow, and wept. I want faith like hers. I’ve resolved to know her better—to learn what keeps her afloat.
On the table: two cups. One empty. One full.
While such people exist, life—and love—are worth clinging to. Despite it all. Love.
