Faradey

"Electricity and Coffee" - that's what we would call this place if we were the owner. But we are just one of the waiters who knows that the morning shift is never boring, because at exactly half past eight the door with the bell lets him in - Mr. Faraday. He always entered in the same way: swiftly, as if pursued by an invisible crowd of admirers, with a briefcase so stuffed with papers that the leather was about to split at the seams. His coat, even in the clearest weather, was slightly damp, as if he had just waded through the fog of his own thoughts. He sat at the same table by the window, which overlooked not the busy street but a tiny, abandoned garden with a single old apple tree.

• Good morning, Mr. Faraday! - my words were part of the morning ritual. He shuddered as if returning from distant worlds, and his face lit up with a warm, slightly embarrassed smile.

• Ah, good morning, my friend! - He never called us by name, although we introduced ourselves to him on the first day. To him, we were simply "friend", "boyfriend" or "maker of the best latte in London". And that was fine. His order never changed: black coffee, no sugar, and a croissant. But the main course was his ideas. He could sit motionless, staring out the window, and then suddenly start feverishly rummaging through his briefcase, taking out a tattered notebook and writing something in it, running his finger across the table, drawing invisible formulas, or whispering something under his breath, arguing with an invisible opponent. One day his coffee got cold and he didn't touch it, completely absorbed in contemplating the raindrops running down the glass. I poured a fresh cup and quietly brought it to him.