Cold Brew – Part 1: The Corner Stool

The café was in a laneway off Flinders Lane, a narrow room with exposed brick, a long marble counter and a window that looked onto a wall of street art. Sienna had worked there for four years. She knew every regular by their order: the lawyer who wanted a double flat white, the nurse who needed oat milk and silence, the student who drank three cold brews and never once said thank you.

She did not know the man on the corner stool.

He had been coming in for six months. He arrived at nine, sat in the same place by the window, and opened a sketchbook. He never ordered. He sat with an empty cup in front of him, drawing the laneway, the people, the pigeons on the wall. Sometimes he smiled at a page. Sometimes he frowned and turned it over. He always left a five-dollar note under the saucer when he went.

"He's a ghost," said her co-worker, Priya, collecting cups.

"He's a sketcher," said Sienna. "And he's paying for his silence."

"You should ask him what he wants."

"I'm not going to ask a stranger what he wants," said Sienna, and then, to her own surprise, she set down a glass of cold brew on the corner of the counter, right in front of him.

He looked up, startled.

"You didn't order," said Sienna.

"I know," said Kofi, and his voice was low and surprised. "I didn't know what to order. Everything here looks like it's better than me."

"That's a very dramatic thing to say about coffee."

"I'm a very dramatic man," said Kofi, with a small, wry smile. "I'm also an architect who can't draw doors."

Sienna laughed, and sat on the next stool, without asking. The café was busy behind them, the espresso machine hissing, but for a moment the corner felt quiet.

"Can I see the sketches?" she asked.

Kofi hesitated, then slowly turned the book round. The pages were full of small, quick drawings: the laneway in the rain, the pigeons on the wall, the marble counter with a mug of cold brew on it. And at the back, a dozen tiny studies of a woman's hands wrapping a cup, pouring milk, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

Sienna's cheeks flamed. "Those are me."

"Yes," said Kofi quietly. "I wasn't brave enough to say so."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a stranger on a stool," said Kofi. "And you're the woman who knows everyone's order except mine."

Sienna looked at the cold brew in front of him, the glass beaded with condensation, and then at him, steady and honest on the corner stool.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"What's your order, Kofi? Really?"

He smiled, slow and warm. "A cold brew," he said. "With a little too much ice. And a conversation with the barista, if she's willing."

"Then I'll make it properly," said Sienna, standing. "And you'll tell me the rest of the story while you drink it."

"Only if you tell me yours," said Kofi.

"Deal," said Sienna. "Green?"

"Green," said Kofi, and his grin was bright. "Very green. Now make me the coffee, Sienna, and let me draw your hands again."