Chapter 17: The Morning After the Lake
Yvonne woke not to her alarm, but to the memory of a touch. The weight of a hand on her cheek, the scratch of a denim jacket against her palm. She opened her eyes to the familiar cracks in her ceiling plaster, but her consciousness was still anchored in the shadow of the glass hotel, the scent of philadelphus and diesel. A fizzy, unbidden smile spread across her face before she was fully awake. She stretched, her muscles singing with the pleasant ache of a long bike ride, her feet seeking the cool emptiness of the other side of the bed.Then, like a shadow passing over the sun, the other memory surfaced. Salim. His quiet confusion over the phone, his soft, wounded “Okay.” The taste of lake water and Victoria’s kiss curdled slightly with a sharp, metallic guilt. She sat up, pushing her dreadlocks back from her face. The morning light, filtering through the ivy that trailed past her single window, was soft and kind. It illuminated the dust motes dancing above her nightstand, the stack of gardening books, the half-drunk glass of water.Her sanctuary. Her anchored life.
“You just ended things,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice raspy with sleep.“And now you’re grinning like a fool over someone else. Over a woman.” The words felt strange and solid in the quiet.They weren’t wrong, just… new. A path in the woods she’d never consciously decided to take, but whose footing now felt unnervingly natural.She swung her legs out of bed, the old floorboards cool under her feet. She wasn’t rushing.She was… feeling. The guilt was real, a sore spot she’d have to tend. But the happiness, this effervescent lightness in her chest, it was real too. It didn’t feel like betrayal; it felt like a different door opening, one she hadn’t even known was locked. She caught her reflection in the dark mirror of her wardrobe: a sleep-softened woman with rumpled ginger hair, a faint line from the pillow on her freckled cheek, and eyes that held a secret.Was she allowed this?
The café below was silent, a vessel waiting to be filled. She descended the narrow, creaking stairs in her bathrobe, the smell of yesterday’s coffee grounds and cinnamon greeting her like an old friend. She moved through the dim space by instinct: flipping the master switch, hearing the hum of the coolers restarting, the soft click of the espresso machine warming its bones.
Sunlight began to bleed through the front window, illuminating the floating dust and the ghost of Victoria’s silhouette from that very first day, a sharp, curious interruption in the quiet narrative of Yvonne’s life. She filled the kettle, the sound loud in the stillness. While it boiled, she scooped fresh beans—an Ethiopian blend with notes of blueberry and jasmine—into the grinder. The violent, crashing whirr was a ritual that grounded her.She measured, tamped, locked the portafilter in. The first press of the lever yielded a slow, rich ribbon of espresso, the aroma exploding into the air, dense and comforting.She didn’t make a milk drink. She took it black, in a small, thick-walled cup, and carried it to the counter.
Perching on a stool, she cradled the heat in her palms and watched the steam rise.She let herself replay it. The bend of the derailleur, Victoria’s furious profile, the calm that settled in her own hands as she worked.The way Victoria had watched her.The look of dismantled awe. That had melted her more than any kiss.
The sharp rap at the glass door made her jump, sloshing hot espresso onto her wrist.She looked up.
Joost’s pale, narrow face was peering in, a mop of blonde hair falling into his eyes. He waved, his long fingers splaying against the glass.She unlocked the door, the little bell jingling. “You’re early,” she said, the words coming out warmer than she’d intended.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged, shuffling in. He dropped his battered backpack behind the counter and immediately began tying his apron, his movements clumsy with residual teenage languor. “Thought I’d get a head start on the floors.They’re kind of… sticky.” He sniffed the air. “You made espresso already.Good. I need life support.”
Yvonne turned to make him a drink, her back to him.“Rough weekend?”
“The usual. Too much screen, not enough sun.” He leaned against the counter, watching her. “You’re in a good mood.”
Her shoulders tensed slightly. She kept her focus on the steaming milk pitcher, the gentle hiss.“Am I?”
“Yeah.You’re… humming. And you made yourself a coffee before opening. You only do that when you’re either extremely stressed or secretly happy.” He accepted the large cappuccino she handed him, taking an immediate, heedless gulp.“Ah. Okay, not stressed.So.”
She turned to face him, wiping her hands on a towel. His eyes, a washed-out blue, were fixed on her with unnerving perception. Joost was naive about many things, but he had a bloodhound’s nose for emotional shifts. “It was a nice day off yesterday, that’s all.”
“A nice day off,” he repeated, drawing the words out.He took another sip, his gaze never leaving her.“You went somewhere. You didn’t just… garden.”
“I went cycling. Around Köpenick.”
“Alone?”
The question hung there.The simple, obvious lie was on her tongue. Yes, alone.It would stop this. But the memory of Victoria saying You have weight made the lie feel cheap, a diminishment of something that already felt precious and fragile. “No,” Yvonne said quietly.“Not alone.”
Joost’s eyebrows shot up. He set his cup down with a deliberate click.“Okay.Who? Wait, don’t tell me it was a date. You just broke up with Salim, like, five minutes ago.” His voice wasn’t accusatory, just wildly, genuinely curious.
“It wasn’t planned as a date,” Yvonne said, and that much was true.“It was… an acquaintance.From London. She’s here for work.”
The pronoun slipped out.Neutral, unadorned. She watched it land.Joost blinked.Processed. “She,” he said, not as a question, but as a confirmation.His expression shifted from gossipy intrigue to something more careful, more thoughtful. “Ah.”
“Ah?” Yvonne echoed, bracing herself.“Ah. That makes sense, actually.” He nodded slowly, as if pieces were clicking into place in his mind—not about her sexuality, but about her mood.“So, a she from London.On a bike. In Köpenick.” A slow grin spread across his face. “And you’re here this morning humming Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, which is what you hum when your brain is having a private party. So the bike ride was good.”
Yvonne felt a flush creep up her neck. She turned back to the pastry case, busying herself with arranging the almond croissants.“The bike broke.I fixed it.”
Joost was silent for a beat. Then he let out a low, appreciative whistle.“You fixed her bike.Of course you did. With the little red kit.” He came around the counter, picking up a cloth to start wiping tables. “And was she… impressed?”
The image flooded back: Victoria kneeling on the pontoon, her face open and disarmed, saying You are full of miracles. “She was,” Yvonne admitted, the words soft.“Good,” Joost said, simply. He didn’t press for more details.He just started wiping the same spot on a walnut table with concentrated effort. “For the record, I liked Salim.He was nice. But you never hummed Bach after he left.”
The observation was so blunt, so accurate, it stole Yvonne’s breath for a second.It wasn’t judgment.It was just Joost, seeing her.
“It’s complicated,” Yvonne said finally, the understatement of the century.
“Life is complicated,” he replied, moving to the next table.“Coffee is simple. Let’s focus on the coffee for a bit.”
Gratitude washed over her, warm and smooth as the espresso in her cup.He was giving her an out, a return to normalcy. The first customer of the day pushed the door open, a regular named Frau Eckert with her knitting bag. The café began its familiar, gentle rhythm. The grinder whirred, the milk steamer screamed and sighed, coins clinked, the chair legs scraped the floor. Yvonne moved through it all with a sense of heightened clarity. Her hands, which had fixed a bike and later cradled Victoria’s face, now deftly handled porcelain and paper cups. The two realities—the rooted, coffee-scented world of the Café Klee, and the shimmering, uncertain possibility Victoria represented—existed side by side within her.
Between the morning rush and the lull before lunch, her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.Her heart executed a slow, heavy roll against her ribs. She pulled it out.The notification glowed on the screen.A message. From Victoria. The preview text read:
Tell your bike repair kit I owe it a drink. And tell you I’m already plotting ways to get stranded with you again.Preferably without the mechanical failures. V.
Yvonne stared at the words until they blurred.A laugh, startled and quiet, escaped her. She felt Joost’s eyes on her.She didn’t look up. She just pressed the phone to her chest, feeling its vibration against her sternum, a tiny, persistent echo of the current that had been buzzing through her since yesterday.She was allowed this. For now, in the quiet eye of the morning storm, with the smell of coffee and the sound of Joost clumsily refilling the sugar jars, she decided she was absolutely allowed this. The plotting had begun, and so, in the deep, secret part of her where the humming originated, had hers.
The plotting had begun, and so, in the deep, secret part of her where the humming originated, had hers. It was a quiet, thrilling act of imagination, sketching possible futures in the margins of the day’s receipts. She found herself listening for a specific rhythm of footsteps outside the glass, a silhouette that would block the afternoon sun in a particular way. The post-lunch lull settled in, a drowsy quiet punctuated only by the soft clatter of Joost washing dishes in the back. Yvonne wiped the already-clean counter, her fingers tracing the ghost of a text message pressed against her skin.
The little bell jingled, its sound different somehow.Yvonne’s head snapped up.
Victoria stood in the doorway, backlit by the hazy Kreuzberg sun. She wore a charcoal linen blazer over a simple white t-shirt, her glasses catching the light. She looked both utterly out of place and completely, magnetically present. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips as her eyes found Yvonne’s.“The usual, please,” Victoria said, her voice cutting through the quiet café. She approached the counter, her movements easy.“Black. To stay.”
“Right,” Yvonne said, her own voice a bit breathless. She turned to the grinder, her hands moving automatically.The beans cascaded, the sound like falling gravel. “How was the… plotting?”
“Productive. Frustratingly theoretical, however.” Victoria leaned an elbow on the counter, watching Yvonne’s hands. “I spent my morning in a conference room with whiteboards, but all I could think about was bent metal and grease. You’ve ruined my professional focus.”
Yvonne smiled down at the portafilter as she tamped. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“It’s entirely a you problem.” Victoria’s tone was low, a private rumble.“I passed a bike shop today. I stared at the derailleurs in the window like they were holy relics.”
Yvonne slid the porcelain cup across the counter, the dark espresso swirling within.Their fingers didn’t touch, but the proximity sent a current through the air. Victoria picked up the cup but didn’t drink. She just held it, letting the heat seep into her skin.
“It was a good day,” Yvonne said softly, stating it as a fact for the room to hear.
“It was.” Victoria finally took a sip, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation.“A very good day. Even the stranded part.”
Joost chose that moment to emerge from the back, a dishcloth slung over his bony shoulder. He froze, his gaze darting from Yvonne’s softly lit face to the sharp, elegant woman at the counter.His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. He shuffled forward, pretending to fuss with a stack of napkins on a nearby table.Victoria noticed. She didn’t turn, but a new amusement played on her lips.“We’re being observed,” she murmured.
“He’s harmless,” Yvonne whispered back.
“I’m not.”
The directness of it, delivered in that hushed tone, made Yvonne’s breath catch. She busied herself wiping the steam wand.Joost could contain himself no longer. He drifted over, leaning against the counter next to Victoria as if studying the pastry case. “So,” he began, his voice artificially casual.“You’re the Londoner. The bike-breaking Londoner.”
Victoria turned her head slowly, regarding him with a cool, appraising look.“I am. And you are the early-morning interrogator.”
He flushed but held his ground.“Just taking a professional interest in client satisfaction. Was the repair satisfactory?”
“Exceptionally.”
“Long-term durability? No concerning rattles?”
“Silent as a secret.” Victoria took another deliberate sip.“Why? Are you offering a warranty?”
Joost shrugged, a failed attempt at nonchalance.“We like to follow up. Especially when our boss comes in humming and forgets to charge for extra oat milk.” He shot Yvonne a triumphant glance.Yvonne rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
Victoria leaned toward Joost, just slightly.Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “What’s your security clearance, kid?”
“Uh… basic?”
“Then I’m afraid the details of that particular mechanical operation are classified.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Need-to-know basis.”
Joost grinned, utterly delighted. He was about to retort when the café door opened again with a forceful push.An older man with a deeply lined face and a flat cap marched in. He went straight to the corner table, sat heavily, and folded his arms. He didn’t look at the menu.He didn’t need to. Yvonne was already moving, preparing his large milk coffee.She placed it before him a moment later. “Good afternoon, Herr Kaya.”
He grunted, lifting the cup. He took a sip, scowled, and set it down with a definitive clink.“It’s not right,” he announced, his Turkish accent thick. “The coffee.It tastes of nothing.When I was young, the coffee had a soul. This is just brown water.”
Victoria watched, puzzled. She glanced at Joost, then at Yvonne, expecting defensiveness or annoyance.Yvonne just nodded, her expression patient. “The beans are the same as last week, Herr Kaya. From the same roaster.”
“Pah!” He waved a dismissive hand.“They do something different. I know it.” He took another, longer drink, his frown deepening even as the cup was drained a quarter of the way.
Joost sidled back to Victoria.“He says that every week,” he whispered loudly. “Every single time.”
“And he comes back every day,” Yvonne added, collecting a dirty cup from another table. “Without fail.”
Victoria looked from the grumpy old man, muttering into his cup, to Yvonne’s serene face, to Joost’s gleeful expression. Comprehension dawned, warm and sudden.This wasn’t a complaint.It was a ritual. A grumpy, steadfast declaration of belonging.A love letter written in minor key.
A laugh bubbled up in Victoria’s throat, sharp and bright.It surprised even her. Yvonne met her eyes, and a mirroring smile broke across her own face, wide and unguarded. Joost joined in, a happy chuckle.
Herr Kaya looked up from his coffee, his stern gaze sweeping over the three of them laughing by the counter.His moustache twitched. For a fraction of a second, something softened around his eyes. Then he grunted again, turned his chair slightly away, and continued drinking his terrible, soul-less, perfect coffee.
Victoria wiped a mock tear from her eye, her gaze locking with Yvonne’s again. In that shared laughter, the cozy room seemed to shrink, holding just the two of them in a perfect, understood bubble. The sound of it was a new thread, stitching yesterday’ possibility into today’s familiar fabric.
The sound of it was a new thread, stitching yesterday’s possibility into today’s familiar fabric. Victoria lingered, nursing her coffee, as the afternoon light slid across the floorboards. She asked quiet questions about the café’s history, her fingers tracing the whorls in the walnut counter, listening as Yvonne explained how her father had chosen the sage green paint because it reminded him of forest moss.
The easy conversation felt like a continuation of their walk by the lake, a private channel open within the public space. Joost orbited them, refilling water glasses with exaggerated discretion, his curiosity a palpable third presence in the room. Yvonne found herself describing the struggle of sourcing organic milk locally, the saga of the temperamental oven, and Victoria listened as if these details held immense significance.
“It’s a whole ecosystem,” Victoria said finally, her voice warm. “Not just a business.”
“It’s a stubborn, slightly messy organism,” Yvonne corrected, smiling. “But it’s mine.”
Victoria checked the slim watch on her wrist, and a shadow of genuine reluctance passed over her features. The casual ease evaporated, replaced by a different tension. “I’ve monopolized your afternoon,” she said, not moving.
“You’re a paying customer,” Yvonne replied, though the words felt absurd.
“Right.” Victoria pushed her empty cup forward. She slid off the stool, the linen of her blazer whispering. “Another meeting. Another guy in too-tight shoes who thinks EBITDA is a meaningful measure of a human life.” She sighed, a short, sharp exhalation of professional weariness. “The plotting must resume, albeit of a more tedious variety.”
Yvonne nodded, her hands suddenly still on the damp cloth she held. The café, so solid a moment before, seemed to waver. “Good luck with the… shoes.”
Victoria’s smile returned, softer now. She held Yvonne’s gaze for a beat too long, a silent conversation passing between them in the quiet, sun-dusted air. Then she gave a cheerful, almost brusque wave, a gesture that belonged to her other world. “See you, Yvonne.”
The bell jingled. The door closed. The space where she had stood seemed to hold a different quality of light, a temporary vacancy. Yvonne stood motionless, watching through the glass as Victoria walked away, her stride quick and purposeful, until she turned the corner and was gone.
The silence that followed was dense. It was broken by the slow, deliberate scrape of a chair leg.
Joost planted himself directly across the counter, his elbows on the wood, his chin in his hands. His blue eyes were wide and unblinking. “So.”
Yvonne braced herself. “So.”
“Half an hour.” He said it like a detective presenting a key piece of evidence. “She stayed for half an hour after her coffee was gone. That’s not a customer. That’s a… loiterer. With intent.”
“She was being polite.”
“She was being interested.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper. “The interrogation recommences. Level two. Did you just walk by the lake? Did you talk? What did you talk about? Did you hold hands after you fixed the bike?”
Yvonne began wiping the already-clean espresso machine, her movements methodical. “We talked. We walked. The weather was nice.”
“Vague. Evasive.” Joost tapped a finger on the counter. “These are the tactics of a woman with a secret. My final question. The most important one.” He took a deep, dramatic breath. “Did you kiss?”
The cloth stopped moving. Yvonne’s head remained bent over the chrome of the machine, but her neck flushed a warm, telltale pink. The silence stretched, thin and revealing, for only three seconds. It was enough.
Joost slapped the counter, a triumphant grin splitting his face. “You did! You did! I knew it! I could tell by the humming! Bach is kissing music!”
“Joost,” Yvonne warned, finally looking up, her cheeks now fully aflame.
“Was it by the lake? Was it a good kiss? Was it a British kiss?” He was practically vibrating, his earlier thoughtful restraint completely obliterated by this victory.
“That is enough.” Yvonne pointed the damp cloth at him, trying and failing to muster sternness. The embarrassment was a warm, prickling cloak. “I am your employer. I could fire you on the spot for gross insubordination and excessive nosiness.”
He beamed, utterly unafraid. “You won’t. You appreciate people who are interested in you. You said that once, after I asked about your mum’s rose cuttings for the fiftieth time.”
She stared at him, the threat dissolving into the air between them. He was right, of course. His clumsy, heartfelt interest was a mirror to the insulated life she’d built, and she did value it. The annoyance was surface-deep, a protective layer over the vulnerability of being seen so clearly.
“Back to work,” she grumbled, turning away to hide her smile. “The syrup bottles need refilling. All of them.”
“On it, Boss.” He bounced away, his movements suddenly infused with a jubilant energy. The clatter of bottles from the back room was louder than strictly necessary.
Yvonne breathed out, the sound lost in the quiet café. She looked at her hands, still faintly marked with the grey ghost of bicycle grease from yesterday. She brought one to her lips, not in a kiss, but in a gesture of private thought. The memory was no longer just a shimmering possibility. It was confirmed, witnessed, and now lived in the space between the espresso machine and the syrup bottles. It was real. And the reality of it, solid and warm and slightly terrifying, settled into her bones alongside the scent of coffee and the familiar, comforting creak of the floorboards.