The Barista's Number – Part 1: Under the Lid

The lid of the paper cup said Oak & Ember Roasters in green letters, and underneath, in blue biro, someone had written a phone number and a tiny drawing of a steaming mug.

Rafa stared at it for a long time, cup in hand, while the milk steamer hissed behind him and the morning rush crowded the counter.

"Rafa, you're blocking the pastries," said his manager, Priya, sliding past with a tray.

"Sorry. Someone gave me a number."

"Is it the tall guy in the green jacket? He's been sitting by the window every Tuesday for a month pretending to read the same book."

Rafa looked up. The window table was empty. Only a folded newspaper and a half-finished latte remained, and a dark-haired man in a green jacket hurrying out the door, head down, cheeks pink.

"Oh my God," Rafa said.

"Call him," said Priya. "Or don't. But stop staring at the lid."

He didn't call that day. He put the lid in his jacket pocket and worked his shift with the note burning a hole in his mind. He did not text. He did not ask Priya anything else. He did, at one point, make the wrong order for a little girl with pigtails, and she corrected him with the patience of a tiny professional.

At closing, Rafa sat on the back step with his phone and the lid, and typed the number carefully.

Hi. This is Rafa, from the counter. I think you left something for me.

The reply came within a minute.

Oh no. I didn't think anyone would actually read it. I'm Sam. I'm so embarrassed right now.

Don't be. I think it was brave.

A long pause, then: It was the first time I'd spoken to you without the counter between us. I've been practising for weeks.

Rafa smiled at the screen, his heart doing a small, nervous flip.

Then you should practise the rest of it in person, he typed. There's a bookshop around the corner that stays open late on Thursdays. Would you like to meet me there?

Yes, Sam wrote. Yes, I think I'd like that very much.

The bookshop was warm and crowded and smelled of paper and cinnamon. Rafa arrived early, and stood by the poetry shelf, pretending to read the back of a novel he had never heard of. Sam walked in at eight exactly, looked around nervously, and then saw him and stopped dead in the middle of the aisle.

"Hi," said Sam. "You're taller than you look behind the counter."

"You're shorter than you look in the window," said Rafa.

"That's not a compliment."

"It's a fact," Rafa said, and grinned, and Sam laughed out loud, startled and bright, and the whole shop seemed to get a little warmer.

Later, they sat on the bookshop's back step with two cups of tea from the café next door, watching the rain start to fall on the alley.

"Can I ask you something?" Sam said.

"Yes."

"Why did you say yes?"

Rafa thought about it. "Because you wrote the mug," he said. "Nobody ever draws a mug for a stranger."

Sam blushed fiercely, and then leaned sideways until their shoulders touched.

"Can I hold your hand?" he asked.

"Yes," said Rafa. "And if you want to stop, just say."

Sam's fingers slid into his, warm and slightly shaky, and neither of them let go while the rain came down.