Breaks

There’s this one girl, right?

Always orders the same thing—one iced cafe latte with almond milk instead of the usual whole milk that you use, less sugar and an extra shot. Before, you would make her order whenever she would come visit, nowadays you make it a part of your routine because she—

Always comes in on the weekdays just shy of the arms of your clock meeting nine, her bag slung over her shoulder, greeting you with a shy smile as she orders her regular drink. Sometimes she’ll order a pastry, but most times she’ll just get her latte.

She always pays with her card, oftentimes giving you a small tip after she’s gone and realized she’ll be visiting this place more often than she was expecting.

Always sits down by the window, always sets up her laptop and works (you assume) for a good while before she leaves.

Normally (and by that, you mean never) you don’t keep track of all the nuances. Orders for specific regulars, sure; it’s part of the job. But when you start to notice the little things that she does, you start getting to know her just a little bit more.

Which is odd, when you don’t even know her name.

But what you do know, is that she always takes a deep breath before her first sip. She stares out the window when she looks stuck on something. Doesn’t seem to like getting calls whenever you hear the ringing come from her laptop. And on the extremely rare occasions that she smiles, it makes you pause whatever you’re doing.

And even with all these things in your head, you still don’t know her name. What she does for a living, what she likes about your cafe, whatever.

It’s not like you care, much. 

She’s a customer. Considered a regular. Someone you see on the daily for a few hours, even if you two don’t really talk except for when she pays for her order.

So when Thursday comes by and you do your usual routine of prepping your coffee machine, checking the pastries, turning the sign to tell everyone that your shop’s open and serving a few customers that managed to beat the rush hour, you finally had a chance to sneak in her order only a few minutes short of when she usually comes in.

Except she didn’t.

You think—hey, traffic is a bitch and she must’ve gotten stuck or something. She’ll probably come by a few minutes late.

Half an hour goes by and you’re remaking her order because the ice has melted. An hour passes, and now you’re looking up every time the bell on your door rings. 

Probably just busy today. Must have a lot of things to do, other places to be. You’re totally not worrying about her at all.

Swear you didn’t screw up any orders the entire day. Or clean the already shiny counter. Or keep making her order every other hour.

Really, it did not happen.

So when the door rang once more minutes before you were about to close, you thought it must’ve been one of the guys who were on the night shift. Didn’t even bother looking up anymore, not when you were already moving to make the order.

“The usual?” 

“Please.” That didn’t sound like a guy.

You look up and lo and behold—it’s her. Looking a lot worse for wear. A hand bag instead of her usual one, eyes looking a little red, hair a little messy.

You blink. “Rough day?”

She smiles, scoffing through her nose. “You could say that.”

Your head nods to her spot. “Take a seat, I’ll bring it to you in a bit.”

Her order’s made within minutes, and you walk over to her window seat. Her drink in one hand, a plate of croissant in another, you place it down on her table. “On the house tonight.”

“You’re generous today.” She glances down then looks up at you. “You do this for all your customers?”

“Course not,” you reply. “You’re probably the third.”

“Lucky me,” she muses. She takes another look down at her plate, a hand reaching out to her drink. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” you say, taking a few steps back and looking around. “You’re welcome to stay while I clean up.”

She smiles at you as she takes a sip of her drink, giving you a thumbs up. You take it as your cue to finish up with your closing ritual.

Put the chairs up, pack up any leftover pastries for food donations—you maybe make her a small box of it—and clean the coffee machine, the counter, the floor. All while she’s over at her regular spot, enjoying her iced cafe latte and dessert.

You two don’t make much conversation aside from the fleeting comments she makes—

“You clean your machine everyday?”

“Can’t exactly afford to have the food inspectors shut me down.”

And the curious questions you ask—

“How’s the food?”

“Good. I shouldn’t be having coffee this late, but after today I think I deserve it.”

You don’t question her about it, as much as you wanted to. The chance to ask passes when she’s surrendering her cup and plate to you, her smile looking a little brighter than it was when she entered. “Thanks for the food.”

“Anytime.” You take the glass and porcelain from her, placing it down at the counter then handing her a pack of pastries. “Here, for you.”

“You didn’t have to.” 

“You look like you could use a pick me up.”

She takes it with a thank you, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Her mouth hesitates, until she speaks.

“My name’s Sakura, by the way.”

You tell her yours, and she lets out a laugh.

“I know.” Her smile turns into a grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Your cup’ll be waiting,” you reply, and she’s out the door with a wave and a smile.

Sakura.

What a beautiful name.