“He has both,” I tell her. “Today.”
“Is that a threat?”
“An observation,” I note, and allow a pause, then give her the part she earned last night when she stood in my way and refused to pretend fear was the only language available. “You could decide it is a kindness if it helps you breathe.”
“I breathe fine,” she huffs, although her throat betrays one small swallow. “You make me angry, that’s all.”
“It’s mutual,” I reply flatly.
She tilts her head as if I have surprised her. The edge in her gaze loosens, then returns. She slides a towel across the counter and wipes a ring of moisture I can’t see from where I stand. Busy hands speak truths mouths are not ready to give away.
“You aren’t from here,” she states. “I can tell by the suit and your posture. Plus, your dog behaves like he’s in the military.”
“You are very observant,” I answer.
“I need to be,” she says. “This place doesn’t run itself.”
“Nothing worth keeping ever does,” I confess, and surprise myself with the honesty of it.
She studies me for a second that feels longer than it is. The rain drums and the room breathes around us.
“Is there anything else you want besides an Americano you won’t finish?” she asks at last.
“I want a list of the men who have spoken to you this week and why they thought they should,” I say harshly, and the words are too blunt and too true.
She laughs once, but not with delight. “You want what?”
“I saw one yesterday. I saw one an hour ago,” I remark, my voice quiet enough that it doesn’t travel and hard enough that it doesn’t invite argument. “They are not locals.”
“Tourists talk to baristas,” she replies sarcastically.
“Not like that,” I answer. “Not with that purpose behind their teeth.”
“What purpose do you imagine?” she asks, her hands landing on her hips.
“I don’t imagine,” I tell her. “I identify.”
“And what have you identified about me, exactly?”
“That you are in the center of something you do not see yet. And that you think you can carry it until it stops moving.”
Her chin lifts. “I always have.”
“Knowing how to carry doesn’t protect you from what chooses to climb on you.”
Silence takes one breath between us. She doesn’t look away, and neither do I.
“Stop trying to manage me,” she snaps, her arms folding as if to shield herself. “You’re a stranger who thinks he owns the room.”
“I own many things,” I say. “The room is not one of them. Not today.”
“Then drink your coffee and let me run my business.”
I don’t smile. “We’ll revisit that.” I slide a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter, the movement unhurried, precise. Her eyes widen as I turn away, the air between us charged, the bill left behind like a quiet reminder that I don’t wait for change.
I return to my corner. Vega hesitates in the aisle and looks back, stubborn animal that he is, but he follows when I call his name. The Americano tastes better on the second sip, but I still don’t finish it.
The rain deepens as the afternoon leans toward evening. The door opens and closes, allowing cold to creep along the floor. When the rush dips again, Albert slips out. Kolya returns, texts me three details that will turn into ten by nightfall and takes another seat by the window without ever acknowledging me.
