Elena arrived at six forty-seven PM.
Thirteen minutes before her self-designated time, which was not nervousness — she had performed in stadiums, she did not get nervous about cafés — but preparation. She had learned last week where the light fell at this hour, which stool had the best counter angle, how long it took to walk from the station.
She was thorough.
The hat was on. The sunglasses were on. The tote bag over one shoulder.
She pushed open the door.
Chime.
Kaito was at the order board. He looked up. The recognition arrived the same way it had last week — immediate, direct, without recalibration.
"Elena," he said.
"Kaito," she said.
She went to her stool. The one two down from the third. She had decided last week that this was her stool now. She had noted it in the notebook.
She sat. Took off the sunglasses. Left the hat.
"Same?" he said, meaning the coffee.
"Yes," she said.
He made it.
