Two lattes, please

Quiet evenings were Carter’s favourite. The lengthy respite between occasional customers provided enough time for him to get the shop cleaned and restocked before closing. There was one customer in at the moment, an elderly man sitting in the booth directly across from the bar. He had only ordered tap water and a biscotti, as evidenced by the crumbs sprayed over the table and the floor, which would certainly require a second sweep.

Behind the bar Carter delicately restocked the jars of loose-leaf tea, removing each lid and releasing an intoxicating cocktail of citrus, floral and earthy scents. He removed the unsold pastries from the display, setting aside a stale croissant for himself and offering the only customer a pain au chocolat, which he silently declined with a wave of his hand. Carter then double-checked the sell-by dates of the desserts in the refrigerator and boxed up a slice of millionaire’s cheesecake – his boyfriend’s favourite. He wiped the sticky residue from the syrup bottles, topped up the POS stand with chocolate bars and crisps, and discarded the old coffee grounds in the compost heap beside the back door, all the while checking for customers and sipping a chamomile tea.

Kev, the other barista on shift, emerged from the toilets, armed with bleach and a mop. “Jesus, those loos were a mess. You would’ve thought we were a zoo, not a bloody coffee shop. Some people…” he went on to describe the state of the restrooms in graphic detail as he peeled the gloves from his hands and swiped the sweat beading on his forehead.

“There are customers present,” Carter reminded Kev, with a slight nod towards the occupied booth.

Kev acknowledged the elderly man and leaned against the bar, scrolling on his phone. This irritated Carter, who decided to discard the pain au chocolat instead of offering it to his colleague. Kev was a decade older than twenty-something Carter, though you would never have guessed the fact from his behaviour. In an effort to reduce his contact with Kev, Carter suggested that the pair employed a divide and conquer method to tackle the closing shift. “I’ll count the stock and clean the floor, while you restock the bar and serve customers.” Carter said, comfortable in the knowledge that he had already restocked the bar himself. Kev nodded, barely looking up from his phone screen.

The freshly mopped floor took the girl by surprise, as she pushed the door open and felt her left foot slip across the threshold. Carter welcomed her and advised that she take care walking on the wet floor. The girl appeared in her late teens, possibly early twenties. It had long been dark outside, and she did not appear the type to frequent coffee shops on Friday nights, especially when there were so many nightclubs and bars within walking distance.

Kev cleared his throat in an attempt to catch Carter’s attention, who flicked a glare of disapproval. “She’s alright, ey?” Kev whispered as the girl studied the menu board. Carter elected to remain silent. He did not want to encourage him, nor could he be bothered to disagree with him.

“Good evening, darling. What can I get you?” Kev asked the new customer. “If you’re after a recommendation, I’d suggest the South American blend. It’s mild and sweet, a bit like yourself.”

“Uh, I’m not sure.” The girl replied.

“I’ll grab you an iced latte, shall I?” Kev barely gave her a second to respond. “What’s a girl like you doing in here at this time anyway? Shouldn’t you be...”

“Well, I was actually looking for something…” the girl interrupted, her voice drowned out by the rattling of the grinder.

Kev paused the machine. “What’s that sweetheart?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Despite the suddenly stifling atmosphere, a chill cascaded down Carter’s spine. He glanced over his shoulder at the girl, who was picking varnish off her fingernails. “Alright, Kev,” Carter approached the till, “I’m all done with the cleaning. Why don’t you get off? I can finish serving this one and close up.”

“I’m nearly done.”

“I can take over. The manager’s been mithering me about labour costs, so…” Carter insisted.

Kev placed the cup of ice on the bar and removed his apron. He nodded goodbye to Carter and made his way towards the exit, stealing a final gape at the girl as he pulled the door open.

The girl’s shoulders dropped. “Thank you,” she managed.

“Not a problem. What can I get for you?”

“Well, there’s actually something I wanted to try,” her hands began to fidget again. “I’m here to meet my grandfather, you see, and, well… I heard that this place serves some sort of latte that’s good for these types of things.”

Carter knew the drink. He had heard the stories circling different pockets of the neighbourhood. The love latte, some called it. The simple beverage consisted of a double shot of espresso with steamed milk and foam in a four-to-one ratio. In other words, a latte. And though Carter believed coffee to be intrinsically magical, particularly on these late shifts, his lattes had become known locally for the milky hearts delicately imprinted on the surface. It was said that whenever Carter crafted a heart, his latte art had the power to create love. Yet, despite their growing reputation, this was the first time a customer had ordered one directly.

He became flushed at the overt acknowledgement and his slick, metallic demeanour slipped for an almost undetectable second. “I…Would you like a latte?”

“Is one enough? I mean, do we both have to have one?” The girl’s anxious expression softened.

“Two lattes. Any sugars?” Carter asked. The girl shook her head.

“Very well, six pounds, please.”

Carter directed the customer towards the booth occupied by the elderly man, who must have been her grandfather, though they greeted one another with a handshake. Moments later, Carter arrived carrying a tray. He placed a saucer in front of either guest, followed by two teaspoons, and then two cups of coffee, each with an expertly crafted heart stained in milk atop the espresso. Swirls of steam danced in the air as the pair lifted their coffee cups in unison. Their eyes met as they took simultaneous sips.

No more customers visited the coffee shop that evening. Carter spent the remaining hour of his shift cleaning, cash counting and sneaking bites of croissant between tasks. He waved goodbye to the pair of guests, who walked out of the shop arm in arm. Carter watched through fogged-up front window as the grandfather opened his umbrella and held it above the girl as she crossed the street. The warmth radiating from the pair was a far cry from the coldness of their exchange an hour earlier, and Carter could not help but wonder if his lattes were the catalyst.

The coffee shop had gathered a substantial crowd over lunch time, as it usually did, predominantly featuring burnt-out students and local businessmen with too-tight suit trousers and obnoxious Bluetooth earpieces. Though Carter had spotted some new faces in the queue.

“Next please,” Carter called, and the line of customers shuffled closer to the tills in a wave.

A young man and woman, both smartly dressed in grey blazers and white shirts, looked at one another before turning to Carter and speaking as one. “Two lattes, please.”

Carter nodded. He dosed out the house-blend beans and ran them through the grinder, before decanting the result into the group head. He dispersed the grounds and tamped, pressing firmly against the counter. He placed the head into the machine and commenced extraction. Typically, a barista would record the number of seconds it takes for the machine to produce an espresso shot, but Carter never bothered, not with this machine. It was an ancient thing. Firey flakes of rust peeled from sections of exposed metal, and it belted a low growl whenever it was tasked with producing more than two shots simultaneously. Carter often joked that, much like Kev, the espresso machine had an aversion to hard work. He also made frequent suggestions that the managers may want to return the machine to whatever antiques shop they purchased it from and use the refund to invest in a newer model, like a quad group head La Spaziale or a bean-to-cup Cimbali M26. The managers, however, claimed that its vintage appearance injected some character into the coffee shop. Who would want a functional machine when you could have a vibe?

Some time later, Carter poured the espresso into two porcelain cups and began to steam the milk, creating a whirlpool of heat and energy with the wand. A flapping sound emanated from the stainless-steel jug and Carter held his palm against its base, testing the temperature. When the metal surface had grown barely too hot to hold, he paused the steam and swirled the jug, deflating any foam bubbles with a light tap against the marble-top counter. He began to pour the milk. A white ribbon emerged from the lip of the jug and flowed into the cup in a single thread.

“Could we have hearts on our lattes, please?” The customer asked.

Carter felt that all-too-familiar prickle on the back of his neck. “Of course.”

An hour or so had passed and the queue still stretched to the front door. Carter’s next customer was an older gentleman who would not have otherwise appeared dissimilar to any of the businessmen in the coffee shop, if it were not for the absence of an impatient expression on his face. Instead, the man appeared anxious. His thick brows were furrowed, and his wide eyes erratically surveyed the other patrons.

“What can I get for you?” Carter asked.

“I’m on a date with my wife…” The man responded in a single sharp utterance. “My ex-wife, she told me about this place, not sure I should’ve believed her, though, always shifting from one crazy story to another…”

“Can I get you a coffee, sir?”

“Maybe I should leave,” the man continued, seemingly oblivious to Carter’s existence. “Who am I kidding? We’ve not so much as shared the same space in two years, never mind attempted a date…”

A woman with short blonde hair and wide blue eyes appeared. She put her hands on the man’s shoulders, which appeared to further his agitation. “Michael, it’s so good to see you after all this time. How are you?” She asked the man with a squeal.

“Ma’am, can I get the two of you anything?” Carter tried again.

“Yes. Two lattes please, with the hearts.” The woman asked with a wink.

Carter extracted the espressos and poured the milk, delicately tracing two hearts with white silk. “There you are,” he said as he placed the drinks before the couple. Plumes of steam curled into the air.

“Thank you,” the woman said with an expectant smile. “So…?”

“So?” Carter asked.

“Does it really work? Will it make the two of us fall in love again?”

“Oh… I’m not sure.” Carter had never truly considered the logistics before. He had always chalked it up to two people taking the time to waste a moment, sip a coffee and enjoy one another’s company. Especially nowadays, when diaries were filled before their spines were broken, when every second of one’s life presented an opportunity for monetisation, time was a valuable resource. To spend it on another person, expecting nothing in return, surely that was evidence enough of one’s love. And the hearts, merely symbolism.

“Well, I’ll let you know how we get on with your love lattes,” the woman said as she took the drinks and left in search of a vacant table.

Carter continued to serve customers, many of whom requested two lattes with the hearts. Kev appeared after the queue had diminished and there were only a few lingering guests awaiting service. Kev had a way of doing that, emerging when there was no more work left to do, and then disappearing as soon as a job came up. He took the final orders and prepared some drinks alongside Carter, who was in the process of making a latte for himself, though he skipped the heart on the off chance that it made him fall in love with the epitome of all he despised, Kev.

Carter wrapped his palms around the warm mug and inhaled the delicate aroma of the African blend. When he first began to drink coffee, Carter would order an iced latte with four pumps of caramel syrup and whipped cream, but over his years as a barista, he had managed to train his palette to accept coffee without sugar and had even come to enjoy its bitter pinches. He lifted the cup and brushed his bottom lip with the porcelain, preparing his mouth for the citrus bite that would gradually make way for notes of flora and smooth milk chocolate. He tilted the cup and…

“How do your lattes work?” Kev asked.

The first sip was tainted by the thump of Kev’s voice. “What?”

Kev responded with a raised brow, which would have been more than enough to convey his thoughts, but he was not the tongue-biting type. “The love lattes,” he said with a grin, “I’ve heard that you can make people fall in love over a bit of hot milk.”

Carter brushed crumbs from the pastry stand in an effort to feign busyness. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“How does it work?” Kev asked, arms folded.

“It’s a placebo.”

Kev peered at Carter through his eyebrows. “Do you…spike them?”

“God, no.” Carter yelled and moved on to wiping the already-clean countertop.

“So, what is it?”

“Magic.”

Kev paused, pondering the idea. “Are you serious?”

“Are you?” Carter moved cakes around in the display fridge. Suddenly, a set of grinning teeth appeared on the other side of the glass, followed by a pair of striking blue eyes and blonde hair.

“They work.” The woman on the other side of the glass called to Carter, who came to the realisation that the apparition was the customer from earlier, who had come in for a date with her ex-husband.

“How so?” Carter asked, retrieving the empty cups that had been placed atop the counter.

“Well, we’re going on another date next week, thanks to your lovely little lattes.” The woman beamed with excitement. Her husband, who appeared considerably more upbeat than he had previously, lingered behind her. “You should be charging double!”

“Sod that, three pounds for a coffee…daylight robbery,” said the man. “I could make that at home.”

The woman gazed at her ex-husband and rolled her eyes, but Carter could tell by the grin tugging at the right corner of her lips that she was overjoyed to be within his company once again. The pair left the shop hand in hand.

Carter surveyed the remaining customers and listened for snippets of conversations. Anything that may help to confirm or deny the claims that his latte art had the ability to create love, or at least encourage connection. The smartly dressed young couple from earlier were making plans for another get together. Two friends that had grown apart since high school were sharing memories and exchanging pictures of new lives. An elderly brother and sister, estranged since the deaths of their parents, were splitting a slice of hot fudge cake and chatting as old friends did.

“I guess it works,” Kev remarked.

“I guess it does.” Carter acknowledged.

“How does a drink create love?” Kev asked.

“I’m not sure it does,” Carter theorised, “I don’t think that the drink has the power to create love where none exists, that would be absurd. Maybe it just…encourages it.”

“Like…it speeds up the inevitable?”

“Maybe.”

“Or…maybe it does create love and maybe we should start calling you Cupid.”

The following evening, Carter found himself alone on the closing shift. The coffee shop was slightly busier than previous nights, owing to the tall tales of its love potions. Three tables were occupied an hour before closing. In one booth sat two young men gracefully feeding one another forkfuls of tiramisu. One table had been occupied for the past couple of hours by a group of students flicking through textbooks and scribbling notes. The final table was taken by an older man and woman, whose paper-thin cool demeanours indicated that they were on their first date.

Carter went about the closing tasks as he always had. He swiped the final croissant and an expiring slice of cheesecake. He cleaned the bar and wiped down the syrups. He brushed the floor and mopped wherever could be reached without disturbing patrons. He retrieved the clipboard and began to record the stock levels, and just as the pen had been removed from his pocket, a customer entered the coffee shop. It was the nervous girl from the other night, the one who had come to meet her grandfather, the first customer to ask for the lattes.

She offered a meek nod and entered the store, wrapping her arms around her chest and hugging her jacket tight to her body, despite the warmth inside the coffee shop. She scuttled to the counter and was shadowed by another. A man who fiddled with his umbrella at the door and wiped his shoes on the freshly mopped tiles, leaving streaks of black grit. The strange man sauntered across the coffee shop and met the girl at the counter, he snaked his arms around her waist and grinned at Carter with a raised brow.

“Two lattes, please.” Kev ordered. “With the hearts.”