Cold Brew – Part 2: Second Order

The next morning, Kofi walked in at nine, sat on the corner stool, and walked straight up to the counter.

"Two cold brews," he said. "One for me, one for you. I'm buying."

Priya dropped a spoon. Sienna pretended she hadn't seen it.

"You're very confident," said Sienna, pulling the first glass.

"I practised in the mirror," said Kofi. "It didn't go well. The mirror kept laughing at me."

"The mirror is very rude."

"The mirror is very honest," said Kofi, and paid with a note that was far too large.

They sat at the window stool together, the laneway busy and bright outside, a street musician playing a fiddle on the corner. Kofi opened his sketchbook and turned it to a fresh page.

"What are you drawing?" asked Sienna.

"You," said Kofi. "Holding the cup, the way you do when you're thinking about something you don't want to say."

"I don't do that."

"You do it every single morning," said Kofi, and his pencil moved quickly. "Like you're trying to decide whether to trust the coffee."

Sienna laughed, and set the cup down, and didn't look away while he drew.

When he finished, the sketch was simple and honest: a woman in a dark apron, one hand around a glass, her eyes looking straight out of the page with a small, wary smile.

"That's the best thing anyone's ever drawn of me," said Sienna quietly.

"It's the first thing anyone's ever drawn of you who was paying attention," said Kofi.

She looked at him over the sketchbook. His face was calm, a little tired, very earnest.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Why did you really come here every day, for six months, without ordering? Not the excuse. The real reason."

Kofi put down his pencil. He turned the cold brew glass slowly, the ice clinking softly.

"Because I'd moved here from Accra for work," he said. "And the job fell through, and I didn't have anyone to talk to. This café was the only place where people were kind to strangers without being asked. And then I saw you behind the counter, looking like you'd rather be anywhere else, and I thought, she's the most interesting person in the building."

Sienna's cheeks went warm. "That's a very dangerous thing to think about a barista."

"I know," said Kofi. "I've been thinking it since March."

They sat in the warm noise of the café, the espresso machine hissing, the musician on the corner playing something slow and mournful. Sienna reached across the table and put her hand over his, the way she would have covered a cup to keep it warm.

"Can I ask you something else?" said Kofi softly.

"Yes."

"Would you let me take you to dinner, somewhere with actual chairs and a menu that isn't written in chalk? And afterwards, we can walk the laneways until we're tired, and you can tell me which of your regulars is the most dramatic?"

Sienna laughed, bright and surprised. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise you'll never again order a coffee you don't like just to keep me talking."

"I'll keep ordering the cold brew," said Kofi. "It's the only thing I'm sure about in Melbourne."

"Then I'll make it better every morning."

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, quietly, his hand still under hers on the marble counter. "Right here, by the window, where everyone can see us and nobody will say a word?"

"Yes," said Sienna. "And if I say stop, you have to draw me pouring the milk, very badly, for the rest of the week."

"Deal," said Kofi, and leaned in.

He kissed her slowly, his mouth warm and certain, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. Sienna's fingers curled round his, steady and sure. The taste of cold brew was sharp and sweet between them, and the laneway outside was full of light, and somewhere on the corner the fiddle player stopped to listen.

When they parted, both of them were smiling so widely it hurt.

"Green?" asked Kofi.

"Green," said Sienna. "Very green. Now finish your coffee, Kofi, and tell me the rest of the story, the one about the doors."

"The doors are a long story," said Kofi, grinning. "I'll need another cold brew."

"Then you'll order it," said Sienna, and went to make it, and for the first time in six months, he said the words out loud, clearly, across the counter: "Two, please. One for each of us."