**Two Lattes**
“Good evening, Margaret! The usual two lattes?” I asked with a smile, studying the small, deeply lined face of our late customer, which still held its charm.
“Hello, Lizzie! Yes, the usual—two lattes, please. And be a dear, fetch me a cinnamon bun as well.” Margaret leaned her cane against the chair, suppressing a wince as she lowered herself into her usual spot by the window.
“We were all worried when you didn’t come at your usual time. I even stepped outside hoping to see you,” I said, pausing to give instructions to a new waitress.
“Don’t fret, my dear. What you feared will happen someday, but not today. The fuss was over nothing—just my pension card getting swallowed by the ATM. I had to queue at the bank for a new one. Seems every old soul in the neighbourhood picked today for their grand financial schemes!” She chuckled, but exhaustion clung to her.
Her hands, always in black lace gloves, trembled. The years had taken their toll.
I’m the manager of a cosy café in the heart of London, a city that holds countless secrets. I started working here at fifteen, eager to earn enough for my mother’s new phone. First, I mopped floors, then trained as a waitress. Now, while studying psychology remotely, I observe people—lovers whispering, teens laughing, young mothers chasing curious children.
Among them was a striking couple—Margaret and Edward. Every Saturday, rain or shine, they strolled the cobbled streets and stopped for coffee. It was their ritual, unbroken for years.
“You stubborn woman, I told you to bring an umbrella!” Edward would scold, watching her sip her latte with raised pinky.
“I’m not made of sugar—I won’t melt,” she’d retort.
“Remember last autumn? You splashed through puddles like a child and caught bronchitis!”
“Stop fussing, you old grump. Order me another bun—they’re divine here.”
Edward would watch, enchanted, as she savoured each bite, humming softly. “I love watching you eat. How do you stay so slim? After my surgery, I force every bite down.”
A year ago, Edward passed. But Margaret still comes, ordering two lattes—drinking one, leaving the other untouched. She stirs sugar silently, gazing out the window as if waiting. Sometimes she cries into a handkerchief, lost in memories no auction could sell.
One day, she confided in me.
“We met in a library,” she said. “I fell off a ladder, and there he was—catching me. His voice, his eyes—I drowned in them. We married three months later. He was my heart. When I was ill, he’d bring me tea, warm my feet… Now half of me is gone. But I’ll see him again. Until then, I endure.”
The café owner often offered her drinks for free, but Margaret always refused. “Everything in life has its cost,” she’d say.
Tonight, she pays and leaves, her cane tapping slowly down the street. I watch her go, tears in my eyes. I want faith like hers.
On the table sit two cups—one empty, one full.
While people like Margaret remain, there’s reason to live. And to love. No matter what.
