14.
Katie liked it the most about 9:20, the morning rush through, the yoga mommies from the studio down the block having collected their post-class lattes. She thought the most interesting customers came in now, the ones looking for work, or doing their work here, or needing a place to be alone in public. There were two doing that on the far wall, sitting with their respective thoughts beneath a painting of a bridge.
Katie did not know the name of the woman in the baseball cap, or what kind of cancer she had. Katie did not think the woman had been a customer before the chemo, but perhaps she had been, perhaps her looks were that changed. Katie and the other baristas often knew things about their customers before being told, the gals who'd previously slammed double-espressos now ordering decaf turn out to be pregnant, people grow thin from illness, or fat from depression. The baristas saw couples nestle into each other as they waited for their coffee, and they saw them fall apart. One couple, daily regulars, had divorced. Several months later, each returned with a new spouse, and later, babies. Spring to summer to fall.
Katie was waiting for the woman in the baseball cap to take the lead. She thought it might have been this morning. They were close to that casual intimacy, a place of easy confidences, no pressure. And Katie knew, as some of the younger baristas did not, about illness and loss. She did not consider herself to have any special powers, but come on, we all need a hand to hold sometimes.
