**TWO LATTES**
“Good evening, Margaret Elizabeth! The usual two lattes?” I asked with a smile, studying the small, deeply lined but still charming face of our late customer.
“Hello, dear Lizzie! Yes, the usual—two lattes, if you’d be so kind. And a cinnamon bun, please.” Margaret Elizabeth hooked her walking stick over the chair back and, suppressing a wince, settled into her usual seat by the window.
“We were all worried when you didn’t show up. What could possibly disrupt your routine? I even ran outside, hoping to catch sight of you,” I said, pausing to direct the new waitress.
“My dear! What you feared will happen one day, but not yet. No need to fret—this time, it was just a stubborn cash machine swallowing my card. Had to queue at the bank for a new one, and wouldn’t you know, every pensioner in town chose today for their grand financial schemes!” She laughed, though exhaustion clung to her.
Her hands, always in black lace gloves, trembled. The corners of her mouth sagged, her pale face gaunt. Years spare no one.
I’m the manager of a small café in the heart of charming York. This city guards countless secrets, but that’s another story. I started working here at fifteen, eager to buy Mum a new phone over summer break. First, I scrubbed floors and dishes, then trained as a waitress. After school, I studied psychology at university—distance learning lets me practice life’s lessons here, serving coffee that revives weary souls and stirs forgotten dreams.
Watching people is my favourite pastime. I read their faces, anticipating moods to avoid misunderstandings. Our patrons vary—boisterous teens, quiet couples lost in each other’s eyes, young ladies with silver-haired gentlemen, mothers with curious toddlers.
Early on, I met a striking couple: a tall, silver-haired man and a woman defying age with grace. Every Saturday, rain or shine, Margaret Elizabeth and Harold James strolled the cobbled lanes and stopped for coffee—a ritual nothing could break. Almost nothing.
“You’re freezing, stubborn creature and partner of my life. I told you to bring an umbrella! My knees ached all last night, but no, Margaret knew best—‘It won’t rain!’ Well, who was right?” Harold James chided, smirking as she sipped her latte, pinkie arched.
“So what? I’m not sugar—I won’t melt,” she retorted.
“Forgotten last autumn? You splashed through puddles like a child and paid with a month of bronchitis!” He scowled. “At our age, we must be careful.”
“Oh, hush, Harold. Order me another bun—they’re divine here.”
Like a queen, she nodded approval while he stirred sugar into her cup, watching adoringly as she savoured each bite, humming softly.
“I love watching you eat,” he’d say. “How do you stay so slim? After my surgery, I force every bite down.”
A year ago, Harold James passed. Yet Margaret Elizabeth still comes, ordering two lattes but drinking only one. She sits by the window, stirring sugar silently, gazing outside as if waiting. Sometimes she cries, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. I never disturb her then—those memories are hers alone.
Once, she shared their story: a shy eighteen-year-old Margaret met Harold in a library. She’d toppled from a ladder, skirts askew, mortified. “Did you hurt yourself?” he’d asked. “His voice was velvet. I drowned in his eyes,” she whispered. They married within months. “I *knew*,” she said. “Even when we argued, I never regretted it. When I was ill, he brought me tea with honey, tucked blankets around me… I miss him, Lizzie. Half of me is gone. But I’ll see him again. Until then, I endure.”
The café owner often offers her drinks on the house, but she always refuses. “Everything in life has its price.”
Tonight, she paid, leaned on her stick, and left. Hunched, she moved slowly down the street. I watched her go, weeping. I want faith like hers.
Two cups remain: one empty, one full.
While such people exist, there’s reason to live. And to love. Despite everything. To love.
