Odd Lattes and Asymmetrical Lights

"Can I get a café latte please?"

You look up from the register, only to see a small petite female (?) — ah yes, female. Her pink hair hangs out underneath a black cap sitting on her head that covers her face entirely with a black facial mask.

“Do you want latte art to go with it?” It's rare that you get a customer this late in the other cafés you worked at, but hey, you're new to this neighborhood — it's different everywhere.

A small nod from her head and she extends out her mobile phone to pay. “That'll be $3.31, 31 extra for the latte art.” The transaction crosses and she leaves to huddle herself in the corner, staring out into the streets through the glass panel.

The steamer hisses, then purrs. Espresso drips— plop, plop —while milk pours in a soft shhh, the pitcher tapping the spout in a quiet rhythm. Within seconds a perfect heart blooms, silent and ordinary… for 31 cents — what an odd price for symmetry.

You set the cup with careful steadiness — perfect heart untouched, before delivering it to her. “Miss, here’s your latte,” She looks up, mask tucked underneath her chin, and you see her subtle smile of gratitude. It slightly lights up your 12-hour gloomy night shift. Warm, fuzzy, electric.

A slight shy half-bow and you retreat to your station. Night shifts are always the same: long, mundane, boring. But it's the only job that fits outside your usual daylife.

You wipe the already pristine clean counters, rearranging perfectly stacked cups, anything to look busy. But you find your eyes impossibly drawn to the calm and soothing atmosphere at the corner. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear while she scribbles into that pink notebook. How she lifts the cup to take a sip while looking out into the dark but well lit roads outside. Her.

It's rude to stare, but you can't peel your eyes off her. Minutes stretch, and for once you pray for the clock to just not move. The soft lamplight pools around her; pen tapping onto her chin in ponder, strikeoffs follow scribbles, writings follow flips. Every tiny sound feels like it's just being played for you.

You're intrigued. You wipe and clean the shiny tables, starting off from the far away corners. Can't appear suspicious. Slowly making progress and inching towards her zone, your eyes peel towards the scripture.

Her notebook opens flat, pages crumpled from the constant flips. The left page is a messy chaos, thick with jagged strike-throughs slashing across half-finished lines. Angry crosses over entire paragraphs. The right? Slightly calmer but still restless. Dots and random phrases plague the page, but the words are still readable.

feeling spreads infinitely

something out of nothing

jamais vu odd attraction

Small doodles of hearts and flowers fill in the empty blanks, and she's still drawing.

Then, like lightning, her pen dives again. You see her spill out words in real time.

imperfection = beauty?

She underlines it once, then twice, before filling the rest of the blanks, scribbling it bigger, surer:

before finishing off with a doodle of a latte cup — one side of the foam flowing out, heart gloriously crooked.

She crashes the book close; your gaze ricochets back to the table. Did she catch you peeking? You pray that she didn't. Rustle of pages, zip of a bag, chair legs scraping against the floor. The next thing you know, you feel a warm flow of air brush past your entire body. She glides past you, elbows slightly grazing your body. Purposeful? Only she knows. “Thank you for the latte~” She slightly bows before the door opens with a jingle — except she's leaving. The only proof that she ever was there is the mark of her pink lipstick, perfectly off-center.

Silence once again fills the void of the empty night.

Nights came and went, each colder than the last. You get the rare jingle of the bell every now and then — a drunk salary man barging in demanding free coffee, a high school couple exchanging forbidden handholding under the table, an old grandma that struggles to understand the menu as though it is written in Wingdings.

But it's never her.

Your eyes wander, but they find themselves magnetically drawn to that seat. Your tablecloth keeps going in circles over the already clean tables, but you always find yourself drifting back to that corner, nudging the chair a centimeter straighter, wiping invisible stains off the table, polishing the already gleaming table light.

You tell yourself it's just a habit.

Your heart knows better.

ting-a-ling~

Your eyes snap up. The bell hasn't even finished ringing, and your heart is already sprinting. It's been only a week. But it felt like a decade. The same pink hair cascading down a new beanie, the same mask hiding her half face. You notice her outfit, jeans hugging her slender legs tight, white blouse tucked out on one side only. You huff the tiniest chuckle under your breath — she's wearing mismatched shoes. Of course she is. Maroon on the right, sky blue on the left.

She steps up to the counter, mask still on, “One Ca—”

You interrupt gently, “Café latte, with latte art, right?”

Her eyes widen above the mask, then curve into smiling crescents. She nods once, almost shy.

The air between you rises a few degrees warmer.

That single mirrored order says everything: You noticed her. You remembered her.

"$3-"

“$3.31, right? 31 cents extra for the art~” She murmurs softly, extending out her phone to pay like a silent counterattack. Your turn to blink, lips curling helplessly, “You remembered too.”

A tension grows between the both of you, but it’s not unsettling, it’s comforting. The machine buzzes between you, and neither of you make a sound until the terminal beeps for payment confirmation. Some conversations don't need anything more than that.

She saunters off. You swear you see her footsteps carry a slight spring, different from the tired drag earlier. Same chair, same slant of lamplight, same notebook. Only this time, her eyes are not on her notebook, they're on you.

The same hissing and purring of the steamer, the same dripping and plopping of the espresso, the same tapping of the pitcher. You grow the same foamy art — except this time the heart doesn't obey. One arch droops, the other sharpens into a jagged star.

You deliver the odd latte with less care for stability, sliding it between her waiting hands, “Enjoy your latte, Miss.” Before she even speaks, you’re already retreating, cheeks blushing.

She stares at the botched latte. Discontent floods her heart, and you brace yourself for soft beration. Then she notices it. A tiny scribble at the corner of the serviette, tucked underneath the cup.

Black ink, your handwriting, neat and cursive.

Asymmetrical lines are beautiful ♡

Fingers fluttering to her mouth, she muffles the shortest, sweetest laugh you've ever heard. You huff in relief. Cheeks rosy, she lifts up her phone, flashes off, and the shutter clicks once. Thumbs dance around, lockscreen set.

The screen lights up — crooked heart and star staring back at her. Your heart skips.

Silence creeps in again, but this time it is humming, warm, and alive. You busy yourself with non-existent work once again, snatching glances at her every now and then. There she goes, notebook open with new hunger, abstract art manifesting, pen flying.

The night has never felt so short.

Weeks become a quiet rhythm. She starts coming every other night, sometimes every night. She becomes your experiment for odd lattes: a sunflower wilted beside the sun, a big star with a bald man in the centre, a duck cut in half conjoined to a hardy acorn. Odd.

She giggles behind her fingers every time, photographs oddness every time, lock screen changing every time.

Her seat changes with every latte served — from the corner booth, to the waffle station, then two seats away from the counter. One night, she slides onto the high stool right in front of you, and never leaves it again. The cold dead silence melts away. Amidst the steaming hisses and clinking cups, she opens her notebook and slides it towards you.

“Is this line odd to you?” she asks, voice soft as steamed milk.