I have her timing down to a science: 8:43 AM, Monday through Friday, never weekends. The minute hand clicks into place on our vintage wall clock, my fingers tingle with anticipation. I’m already pulling her double shot of espresso, measuring precisely 60ml of steamed milk for the cortado she never has to order anymore. A “whisper” of cinnamon—her exact words that first day, spoken with such gentle authority that I’ve never forgotten them. Not a sprinkle, not a dash. A whisper.
The bell above the door chimes with its familiar, slightly off-key ring (I’ve been meaning to fix that for months), and there she is. Silhouetted for just a moment against the morning sunlight before she steps into our dimly lit cafe, she looks like something from a dream.
My heart performs its now-familiar gymnastics routine—a triple axel with a twist that leaves me feeling slightly dizzy. Four months of this same reaction, and my body hasn’t developed any immunity.
Today she’s wearing an emerald green pantsuit that hugs her curves before falling in a perfect drape to polished leather boots. Her braids are swept up in an intricate twist that must have taken ages to create, with tiny gold cuffs catching the light at the ends. Beneath her open blazer, a silk blouse the color of heavy cream provides a stunning contrast against her deep brown skin. She carries a sleek leather briefcase that probably costs more than my monthly rent, and a small gold pin on her lapel catches the light—some kind of bird in flight that I can’t quite make out from here.
“Good morning, Wallace,” she says, and my name in her mouth sounds like poetry. Her accent wraps around the syllables with a musical lilt that I’ve spent many night shifts trying to place. The way she slightly emphasizes the second syllable makes me think West Africa—Nigeria, perhaps, or Ghana. I’ve googled African accents more times than I care to admit, but nothing sounds exactly right.
Exactly like the pure perfection of hers.
“Morning, uh…” I trail off, painfully aware that I still don’t know her name after sixteen weeks of serving her. I’m the guy who prides himself on remembering every regular’s name and drink order, who draws little personalized doodles on each cup. Yet somehow, I’ve never managed to ask for hers. Partly because she’s always on a business call when she approaches the counter, partly because the morning rush inevitably interrupts us, but mostly because I’m a coward who gets tongue-tied in her presence.
She smiles, those deep brown eyes crinkling at the corners, little laugh lines appearing that make my stomach flip. “Adanna.”
“Adanna,” I repeat, trying to match her intonation and probably failing miserably. The name rolls off her tongue so beautifully, and stumbles off mine like a drunk trying to navigate stairs. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“You say that every time I tell you,” she laughs, a warm, rich sound that seems to vibrate through the wooden counter between us.
Wait, what? My brain short-circuits. “I… do?”
“I’m teasing you,” she says, her smile widening to reveal a tiny gap between her front teeth that I find inexplicably charming. “This is actually the first time I’ve told you.” She adjusts the strap of her briefcase, slender fingers adorned with a single gold band on her right hand. “Though you’ve asked twice before. You always get busy with the morning rush before I can answer.”
My cheeks burn so hot I’m surprised the milk in the steamer behind me doesn’t curdle in sympathy. So she’s noticed me noticing her. She’s been keeping track of our almost-conversations.
“Well, third time’s the charm,” I say, sliding her cortado across the counter. I’ve poured the steamed milk to create a perfect heart in the crema—something I’ve never dared do before. “One extra-shot cortado with a whisper of cinnamon for Adanna.”
She takes the cup, our fingers brushing. I swear I feel a tiny electric shock, but that’s probably just static electricity from the dry winter air. Or you know, the cosmic universe telling me I’m an idiot who should definitely ask this woman out before I spend another four months pining over her from behind an espresso machine.
“You remembered,” she says, sounding genuinely pleased as she looks down at the heart design.
“Hard to forget.” I lean against the counter, attempting casual indifference but probably looking like I’m having some kind of orthopedic emergency. “It’s not every day someone orders a ‘whisper’ of anything. Most people just grunt and point at the menu board.”
Adanna laughs, and it’s like someone’s turned up the brightness in the room. The morning sun seems to intensify, illuminating dust motes in the air between us like tiny stars. “I’m particular about my coffee.”
“I’ve noticed.” I tap the side of my head. “Barista memory. It’s like elephant memory but with more caffeine jitters.” I demonstrate with a slight hand tremor that’s only half-feigned. Six shots pulled already this morning, and it’s not even 9 AM.
She takes a sip and closes her eyes briefly, her long lashes fanning against her cheekbones. When she opens them again, there’s a warmth there that makes my knees weak. “Perfect, as always.”
Behind her, the line is growing. Commuters in various states of morning grumpiness shift impatiently from foot to foot. My coworker, Mia, shoots me a pointed look from where she’s restocking the pastry case. I should wrap this up, but I can’t bring myself to end this moment.
“So, uh, what do you do?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at her outfit. “Let me guess—international diplomat? Supreme Court Justice? Professional chess player?”
“Close,” she smiles, running one finger absently around the rim of her cup. “Corporate attorney. Intellectual property, specifically.”
“Ah, hence the power suits and the precision coffee orders.”
“My job requires attention to detail.” She sips her coffee again, leaving a perfect crescent of deep red lipstick on the white ceramic. “The same could be said for you, though.”
“Me?” I laugh, surprised. “I’m just a guy who makes coffee.”
“A guy who remembers exactly how I like my coffee after hearing it once, who creates art in every cup,” she counters, nodding toward the latte I’m absentmindedly creating for the next customer—a fern pattern that’s starting to wilt as the foam settles. “That’s not ‘just’ anything.”
I feel heat creeping up my neck again. No one’s ever really seen my work that way before. To most customers, I’m just the hand that passes them caffeine.
“And what about you?” she continues. “Besides being a coffee artist?”
“Oh, you know, just your typical barista by day, aspiring screenwriter by night, anxiety-ridden mess 24/7.” I wince. Why did I say that last part? Four months of carefully cultivated mystique, ruined by nervous oversharing.
But Adanna just laughs again, a sound I’m quickly becoming addicted to. “I’d watch that show.”
The businessman behind her checks his watch with exaggerated emphasis. Mia coughs pointedly. The line has grown to at least ten people, all radiating that distinct pre-caffeine impatience.
“I should…” Adanna gestures toward the door, a reluctance in her movement that makes my heart leap.
“Right, of course.” I nod, my opportunity slipping away like foam down the drain. “Enjoy your whisper of cinnamon.”
She turns to leave, her perfume—something with notes of jasmine and vanilla—lingering in her wake. My shoulders slump slightly as I reach for the next cup.
Then she pivots back, her braids swinging with the motion. “Wallace?”
My heart jumps like it’s been shocked with defibrillator paddles. “Yes?”
“Do you like Ethiopian food?” she asks, a slight hesitation in her voice that makes her seem suddenly vulnerable, less like the confident professional who strides into my cafe every morning and more like someone taking a risk.
“I… don’t know. I’ve never tried it.” Brilliant response, Wallace. Very worldly and sophisticated. Why not just tell her you still eat dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets when you’re sad?
“I know a place,” she says, shifting her weight slightly from one foot to another. “The best in the city. Authentic. My roommate from law school was Ethiopian, and she swears by it.”
My pulse quickens. Is she…?
She reaches into her blazer pocket and pulls out a business card, then borrows a pen from my apron pocket. Her fingers brush against my chest as she does, and I forget how to breathe. She writes something on the back of the card, her handwriting flowing and elegant.
“My number,” she says, handing me the card. “In case you’d like to expand your culinary horizons.”
I take the card, trying not to let my hand shake. “I’m suddenly feeling very horizonal. I mean, interested in horizons. Food horizons.” Someone please stop me from talking.
Adanna’s smile widens, that adorable gap between her front teeth making another appearance. “Text me. Maybe we can go this weekend. Saturday night?”
“I will. Definitely. Yes. Saturday is perfect.” I’m nodding like a bobblehead with a manufacturing defect.
“Good.” She bites her lower lip slightly, and I’m mesmerized. “I’m looking forward to it.”
As she leaves, navigating around the line of waiting customers with effortless grace, I glance down at her card. “Adanna Okafor, Attorney at Law, Okafor & Chen Intellectual Property.” The card is heavy, expensive stock with embossed lettering. Below her printed details, she’s written her cell number and a little heart.
A heart. An actual heart. I press the card to my chest like I’m in some cheesy rom-com, not caring that Jenny from accounting—who comes in every morning at 8:50 for an almond milk latte with sugar-free vanilla—is staring at me from the front of the line.
“Sorry for the wait,” I tell Jenny, unable to keep the grin off my face. “What can I get for you today?”
But my mind is already elsewhere, crafting the perfect text message to Adanna, wondering what one wears to an Ethiopian restaurant, if the food is spicy, if I need to learn how to eat with my hands, and if it’s too soon to tell her that I think I’ve been half in love with her since the first time she ordered a cortado with a whisper of cinnamon.
Behind me, Mia snorts as she steams milk. “Smooth, Romeo. Really smooth.”
I don’t even care. I tuck Adanna’s card carefully into my wallet, right next to the screenplay idea I jotted down last week—a meet-cute between a coffee shop barista and a mysterious regular with an accent like music and eyes that could melt the polar ice caps.
Art imitates life, after all. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, I’ve got a date on Saturday with the woman who’s been starring in my daydreams for four months, and suddenly the idea that my screenplay might have a happy ending doesn’t seem so far-fetched after all.