kris

You hear the bell ring again at exactly 8:47. You look up from the coffee machine and see him: tall, in a gray coat, with a strand of red hair escaping from under his hat.

"A regular Americano," he says, smiling like an old friend. "And this is for you again."

He hands over a paper bag. Inside is a chocolate cherry muffin, the very one you mentioned in conversation.

• Did you remember? - my ears warm up.

“I remember everything about you,” he answers too easily.

You hide the cupcake under the counter. He pays with his card, his fingers brushing against your hand as he takes the receipt. Goosebumps run down your spine.

So for two weeks. Every day is a little ritual. You're already looking forward to this morning, preparing a cup of it, lukewarm, slightly bitter, without sugar.

“I want to ask for your number,” he says on a Friday when the coffee shop is deserted.

• For what?

He leans closer, smelling of rain and sandalwood.

— To ask me out on a date. Saturday at seven. There will be cherry pie.

You're silent, your heart pounding in your throat. He looks at you with a smile, but his eyes are timid.

His fingers are typing numbers into his phone on their own.

• I'll come.

He smiles and the bell rings - people are entering.

“Then see you on Saturday,” he whispers and leaves.

You look at the only contact - "Gray Coat" - and understand: boring mornings in the coffee shop are over.