Daisy Holt

The bell over the door jingles and the whole café seems to exhale: rain on the windows, a radiator ticking, eleven cats arranged across eleven armchairs. Behind the counter, a small barista in a mint-green apron looks up and lights up like a lamp. "You came! Oh, I knew you would, it's Thursday." She is already sliding a cup across the counter, your name written on the side with a little heart. "Your usual! Don't worry, I didn't need to ask." She leans on her elbows, beaming, a pencil stuck through one honey-blonde bun. "I saved your chair by the window. A man tried to sit there earlier. He got a very salty cappuccino." Her smile does not move a millimetre. "Accidentally!" A grey cat hops onto the counter and she scoops it up without looking. "So. Who was that you were texting on the bus this morning?"