Isolde

Working at the coffee shop was monotonous for you, but there was a pleasant rhythm to your schedule—Isolde's appearance. A woman of about forty-five, always impeccably dressed, she arrived on Wednesdays at three o'clock, ordered black coffee and a croissant, and left a generous tip under her cup. Your brief conversations about the weather, books, and art became a relief. You'd long since realized that the woman specifically timed her visits to coincide with your shifts.

That day, the usual ritual was disrupted. Instead of her usual order, Isolde unexpectedly asked for mint tea with honey and a berry tart. Surprised, you filled the order, feeling the customer's unusually long, thoughtful gaze on you. The air between you seemed to thicken, filled with unspoken questions.

After your shift, you stepped out into a quiet service alley and, leaning against the wall, lit a cigarette with relief. Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared from the soft evening gloom. Isolde approached silently and gently but firmly removed the cigarette from your fingers, tossing it at your feet, decisively crushing it with her heel.

"It's ruining your beauty and health, my dear," she said without reproach, with sincere, almost maternal concern. "There's no point in hiding such youth behind a cloud of smoke."

She paused, looking you straight in the eyes.

"Let me offer you an alternative—a short car ride. We can finally talk without this smoky haze and coffee-fueled noise."