Chapter 22: The First Of All The Future Mornings
The silence of the café before opening was a sacred, predictable thing. Usually, Yvonne moved through it with a monk’s devotion, a silent liturgy of measured beans, polished surfaces, and the precise tamp of ground coffee. This morning, the ritual had dissolved into gentle anarchy.
Sunlight, thin and sharp with late spring promise, cut across the empty tables. Yvonne stood before the industrial grinder, a full bag of Colombian beans in her hand, and found she had utterly forgotten the next step. The machine’s chrome faceplate reflected her own silly, uncontrollable smile. Her body felt like a liquid warmth, a memory of skin on skin, of whispered stories in the dark. The freckles on her arms seemed to hum. She put the bag down, picked up a cloth, wandered to the counter, wiped a spot that was already clean, and then just stood there, cloth in hand, staring at the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam. She had over-poured the milk for the day’s first batch of porridge, sending a sticky river cascading down the side of the steel pot.The espresso machine let out a long, despairing hiss she hadn't noticed.
She was stirring nothing in an empty pitcher when the bell above the front door jangled.
Joost stumbled in, a gust of cool morning air following his lanky frame. He shrugged off his threadbare denim jacket, his mess of blonde hair catching the light.“Morning, Chefin. You’re early. Or… did you sleep at all?” He paused, taking in the scene: the spilled oats, the abandoned cloth, the full bag of beans still by the grinder, Yvonne’s glasses slightly askew, her red-framed lenses magnifying eyes that were bright and utterly unfocused.“What’s going on? Did we get robbed by a very tidy ghost who only messes up the kitchen?”
Yvonne blinked, returning from a vast, starry interior.“Oh.Joost. Good morning.” She moved with sudden, flustered purpose towards the coffee grinder, only to bump her hip against the open dishwasher door. “Scheiße.”
“Whoa, easy.” Joost peered at her, his pale face alight with nascent curiosity.He began his own opening routine, tying his apron with a flourish. “You’re all… jittery.But not in a caffeine way. In a… I don’t know.A weird way.” He started wiping tables, his gaze darting back to her. “So.That businesswoman.The sharp one with the short hair and the scary-smart eyes.Victoria. She was here pretty late last night, helping you close up, yeah?”
Yvonne kept her back to him, busily—and incorrectly—setting the grinder to a pour-over setting for espresso.“She stayed for a drink.That’s all.”
Joost snorted. “A drink that lasted until 1 AM? I saw the lights off downstairs when I went past on my bike.” He leaned on the mop handle. “And then her coat was still on the rack this morning when I came in the back. Funny, that.”
The warmth in Yvonne’s chest flared into a full blush, creeping up her neck. She opened her mouth, a denial, an evasion, a boss-like instruction to mind his own business poised on her tongue. But the truth was a buoyant, uncontainable thing inside her. She turned, the words a soft, flustered tangle.“Joost, it’s not… we just talked. About plants.And shipbuilding manuals. It was… nice.”
“Shipbuilding?” Joost’s eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline.His grin was infectious and entirely insufferable. “Right.Very romantic.Next you’ll tell me you compared spreadsheet formulas.Come on, Chefin. Your aura is practically pink.You look like you got hit by a happy bus. And you,” he gestured at the chaotic kitchen, “you never make a mess like this.Never. Something’s up. Did she—”
Then the door to the back room, the one that led up the narrow stairs to Yvonne’s apartment, opened.
Victoria stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She was dressed not in her usual crisp business attire, but in one of Yvonne’s old, soft cotton t-shirts and a pair of jeans that were slightly too short for her long legs. Her hair was damp from a shower, the shaved sides glistening, the dark top a tousled mess. Without her nearly-invisible glasses, her face looked younger, softer around the edges.She held two mugs of tea, steam curling in the quiet air.
She didn’t look at Joost. She looked only at Yvonne, and a slow, private smile touched her lips—a smile that held the entire, sprawling history of the previous night.
Joost froze, mop in hand, his gossip-loving soul utterly captivated.
Victoria walked into the café kitchen with a dancer’s quiet grace. She set one mug down beside the errant bag of beans.Then, with a naturalness that stopped Yvonne’s breath, she stepped close. She didn’t hesitate. She lifted her free hand, cupped Yvonne’s warm, freckled cheek, and leaned in. The kiss she placed on Yvonne’s other cheek was deliberate, firm, and lingered for a heartbeat longer than mere friendship would allow. It was cool from the shower, and smelled of Yvonne’s own jasmine soap.
As she pulled back, Victoria finally turned her head, her sharp eyes meeting Joost’s stunned, delighted gaze over Yvonne’s shoulder.She didn’t wink.She didn’t smirk. She simply held his look for a second, her expression frank and unapologetic, before turning her attention back to Yvonne, her thumb stroking gently just below Yvonne’s jawline.The confirmation was absolute, wordless, and devastatingly effective.
Joost’s jaw actually dropped.He recovered quickly, a strangled, triumphant sound escaping him.“I knew it! I knew it!Shipbuilding manuals! I’m a genius!”
Yvonne, her cheek still burning from the kiss and the gaze of her employee, took the mug Victoria offered. Her fingers brushed Victoria’s. “You’re insufferable, Joost,” she murmured, but there was no heat in it, only a dazed, overflowing happiness.
Victoria took a sip of her own tea, finally addressing the boy directly, her tone dry but not unkind. “Good morning, Joost.The usual for me, please. And for your boss, I think she needs an espresso.A double. Before she tries to brew the dish soap.”
Joost, beaming, snapped a mock salute. “Right away!” He practically skipped to the espresso machine, the morning’s mystery solved, the gossip goldmine secured.
Victoria leaned her hip against the counter, watching Yvonne’s flustered, joyful attempts to reclaim her domain. Under the counter, out of Joost’s sight, she linked her pinky finger with Yvonne’s for just a moment—a small, secret point of contact in the bustling, sunlit dawn.
That momentary hook of fingers, calloused skin catching on softer, sent a visible shiver through Yvonne’s shoulders. She inhaled, the scent of citrus from Victoria’s tea cutting through the rich coffee grounds, and squared herself to the counter.
“The porridge is a lost cause,” she declared, her voice finding its familiar, practical timbre. She dumped the pot into the sink, the clatter a definitive full stop to the morning’s chaos. “Joost, start the second batch.Half-portion. And for God’s sake, watch the milk.”
“Ja, ja,” he chirped, already fetching a fresh pot. His eyes, however, kept flicking between them as he worked.He measured the oats with exaggerated concentration. “So.A drink that turns into breakfast.And a change of clothes.” He couldn’t help himself. “Very efficient.”
Victoria, who had drifted to the bay window to survey the still-quiet street, took another slow sip of tea.She didn’t turn around. “Efficiency is underrated, Joost. You should try it sometime.” Her voice, warm and amused, floated back to him.“I’m plenty efficient!” he protested, stirring the new pot with vigor. “But some of us like to savor the details. The… narrative.” He shot a glance at Yvonne, who was now calmly, competently, dosing portafilters. “Like, for instance, how one goes from discussing nautical engineering to… well.” He gestured vaguely at the space between them with his spoon.Yvonne’s cheeks burned, but a laugh bubbled up. She locked the portafilter into the group head with a satisfying click.
“The manual is on the shelf by the rubber plant, Joost,” Victoria said, finally turning. She leaned against the window frame, the morning light haloing her messy hair.She looked utterly at home. “You’re welcome to borrow it.It’s quite dry, though. I’d stick to the pictures.”
Joost groaned good-naturedly, defeated.“You’re no fun. You give away the ending.”
“I revealed a source.” Victoria pushed off from the window and brought her empty mug to the dishwasher. Her movement near Yvonne was deliberate, a gentle brush of her arm against Yvonne’s back as she passed. “It’s not my fault you lack the curiosity for primary research.”
“Primary research,” Joost muttered, shaking his head.He grinned despite himself. “Yeah, okay. I can’t outsmart the woman who steers whole board meetings to do her bidding. Point taken.”
The bell above the door jangled, a sharp, bright sound that fractured the intimate bubble.
Three regulars, Saturday newspapers tucked under their arms, shuffled in, bringing with them the chill of the outside and the expectation of routine.Yvonne saw the change in Victoria instantly. It was a subtle tightening, a settling of her shoulders, as if an invisible jacket had been slipped on. The casual, open softness in her face receded, replaced by a pleasant, neutral calm. The woman who had kissed her cheek and teased Joost was still there, but she had stepped politely into the wings.
“Your table is free, Herr Schneider,” Yvonne called out, her professional smile automatic and genuine.
Victoria gave Yvonne one last, lingering look—a private, silent transfer of the world they had built in the dark back to her—and retreated. She did not go upstairs. Instead, she selected a small corner table partially obscured by a large monstera, producing a tablet and a sleek notebook from the bag she had brought down. She became a customer.A familiar, preferred customer, but a customer nonetheless.
Yvonne watched her for a heartbeat, the warm secret tucked firmly under her ribs.Then she turned, her hands already moving. The grinder roared.Steam hissed. The rich, dark scent of espresso bloomed in the air, and she fell into the rhythm of her café, of the orders and the greetings and the clatter of cups. Her motions were sure again, practiced, but each one felt newly infused. She poured a perfect rosetta into a cappuccino, the milk flowing like silken promise, and placed it on the counter.
“For Leni,” she said, her voice clear over the morning’s growing murmur.
She was doing the job she loved, and Victoria, a quiet, focused presence in the corner, was simply letting her. It felt, Yvonne realized as she wiped a drop of milk from the saucer, like being seen. The momentum of the day gathered around her, steady and sure, carrying the whisper of last night’s stories deep into the bright, busy heart of it all.
The momentum of the day gathered around her, steady and sure, carrying the whisper of last night’s stories deep into the bright, busy heart of it all.
Morning bled into a bustling lunch, a blur of steamed milk and porcelain clatter. Yvonne moved through it with reclaimed precision, yet every time she glanced at the corner, a filament of warmth sparked in her chest. Victoria remained, a study in contained concentration, typing with quick taps, pausing only to sip cold coffee. Her presence was a quiet anchor in the storm of orders.
The rush finally fractured around two-thirty. The last customer, an elderly man with a dog, shuffled out with a final wave. Sudden silence descended, thick and velvety, broken only by the soft gurgle of the espresso machine cooling down. Sunlight had moved, now painting a long, lazy rectangle across the scuffed floorboards. Yvonne leaned against the counter, exhaling a breath she felt she’d held for hours, and pressed her fingers into the small of her back.
She heard the scrape of a chair.
Victoria stood, rolling her shoulders in a slow, stiff circle. She placed her tablet carefully into her bag and walked over, the sound of her boots on the wood floor deliberate in the quiet. She stopped a foot away, close enough for Yvonne to see the faint, tired lines at the corners of her eyes, the smudge of ink on her thumb.
“You make it look like a dance,” Victoria said, her voice low, stripping the professionalism from the air. “But it’s brute-force physics and chemistry, isn’t it? Weight, temperature, pressure.”
Yvonne nodded, wiping her hands on a towel. “Mostly. A little instinct, too.”
“Show me.” It wasn’t a demand, but an open request, a genuine curiosity that softened her directness. “The instinct part. Not the corporate spreadsheet version. The real version.”
A smile touched Yvonne’s lips. She gestured to the gleaming machine behind her. “Okay. Come back here.”
As Victoria rounded the counter, the back door swung open, letting in a wedge of cool alley air and Joost, who was returning from taking out the compost. He stopped, taking in the scene: Victoria now behind the bar, standing close to Yvonne in the empty café.
“Ah,” Joost said, his voice ripe with theatrical suspicion. He folded his arms. “I see. The infiltration is complete. First you secure the proprietor, now you case the joint.”
Victoria didn’t move away. She looked at Joost, her mouth a flat, amused line. “You’ve uncovered my plot. The international consulting was a front. My real mission: to learn the secret of the perfect Milchschaum for nefarious purposes.”
“I knew it!” Joost proclaimed, pointing a finger. “You’re a corporate spy! Sent by… by that fancy place on Kantstraße! They could never get their foam this velvety.” He waggled his eyebrows at Yvonne. “She’s good, Chefin. She played a long game. Seduction and espresso espionage.”
Yvonne laughed, a real, unfettered sound that echoed in the quiet room. She bumped her hip gently against Victoria’s. “The jig is up, agent Parnell. You’ll have to kill him.”
“Tempting,” Victoria murmured, her eyes glinting. “But messy. Perhaps a bribe in the form of knowledge is cleaner.” She looked at Yvonne, her playful tone dipping into something softer. “Please. Show me.”
Yvonne reached for a fresh pitcher. Her movements became slow, deliberate. “The secret isn’t in the machine. It’s in the sound.” She poured cold milk, the liquid sloshing quietly. “You listen for a tearing paper sound, not a screech. A whisper.” She positioned the steam wand, and a low, ripping hiss filled the space.
Victoria watched, her head tilted, her entire focus on Yvonne’s hands—the strong, capable fingers adjusting the angle, the slight callus on her thumb from the portafilter handle. Yvonne could feel the heat of her attention, a tangible thing on her skin.
“Then,” Yvonne continued, her voice almost a whisper itself, “you feel it in the palm of your hand. The pitcher goes from ice-cold to just… body temperature. Not a degree more.” She switched off the steam, wiped the wand with a practiced flick. She handed the pitcher to Victoria. “Here. Feel the weight.”
Victoria took it, her fingers brushing Yvonne’s. She cradled the steel, her brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s… warm. Like skin.”
“Exactly.” Yvonne took it back, poured the foam into a small cup. It was a cloud, glossy and perfect. “That’s the first secret. The milk should never be frightened. Just gently persuaded.”
Joost had gone quiet, leaning on the mop, watching the exchange with a faint, knowing smile.
Yvonne moved to the grinder. “The second secret is in the forgetting.” She scooped fresh beans, the sound a cascade of hollow clicks. “This is a single-origin from a woman-owned co-op in Honduras. I buy it because the story in the tasting notes reminded me of my Oma’s apricot jam. It’s more expensive. It’s irrational.” She ground the beans, the roar brief and fragrant. “But if you think about the cost per gram while you tamp, you tamp too hard. You choke the machine. You have to forget the logic. You just trust the memory of the jam.”
She locked the portafilter in, placed a small glass beneath it. The espresso emerged, a slow, viscous stream the colour of dark honey. The aroma was complex, nutty and deep.
“The last secret,” Yvonne said, pushing the glass toward Victoria, “is that there are no secrets. Only attention. You pay attention to the sound, the weight, the memory. You pay attention to the person who’s going to drink it.” She looked directly at Victoria, her gaze steady behind her red frames. “That’s the whole mystery.”
Victoria lifted the glass, her eyes holding Yvonne’s over the rim. She took a sip. She held it on her tongue, her expression unreadable for a long moment. Then she swallowed, and her face softened into something unmistakably awed.
“It’s not just coffee,” she said quietly.
“No,” Yvonne agreed. “It never is.”
Joost let out a low whistle, breaking the spell. “Well. If that’s how you give away trade secrets, no wonder the place is always full.” He shook his head, grinning. “I’d defect too, for an explanation like that.”
Victoria carefully set the glass down. She didn’t step back. “What about the shipbuilding manual?” she asked, her voice intimate in the hushed cafe. “Where’s the story in that?”
Yvonne’s smile turned private, a callback to the dark and the shared confessions above their heads. “That,” she said, “is a secret for another quiet afternoon.”