
Inside the café, the world softens around the edges. The espresso machine has gone quiet, its metal belly releasing one last sigh of steam. She wipes down the counter in slow, practiced circles. When she finishes, she pours herself a small mug from what remains in the pot — lukewarm, but still comforting — and brings it with her as she turns.

Time, for her, is elastic. Sometimes it stretches, gossamer-thin, like taffy pulled too far, and she can walk its length to touch the moment when her mother bent to kiss her scraped knee, or the instant she first realized she’d fallen in love. Other times it snaps tight and whips her forward, years ahead, where she sees a conversation that hasn’t happened yet, the face of a friend she hasn’t met.

There’s the woman who orders decaf but still asks for extra shots — the theological version of wanting the ritual, not the repercussions. And the man who insists his cappuccino be “authentic Italian.” I use the same beans as everyone else, but I give him extra foam and a flourish on top. Religion, I’ve learned, is mostly presentation.