All the Names She Wore
The only effort I’m aware of is the one happening inside my chest.
I stop outside a small café — wood panels, a chalkboard sign with looping handwriting, two tables outside that are too small for any real meal. It’s the kind of place that would disappear in any other city but thrives here because people believe in moments, not convenience. I step inside. Warmth hits me immediately — the smell of freshly ground beans, sugar, butter melting on pastries in the display case. A barista with tattoos along his forearms half-smiles at me and lifts his chin in acknowledgment.
“Un doppio,” I say.