Jose

José was 29, a barista with a dream that stretched further than his paycheck ever did.

Originally from Portugal, he had arrived in the United States on a student visa, young and hungry for opportunity. He had studied economics at a state university, spent hours in lecture halls filled with numbers and theories and graduated with honors. But when it came time to follow the well-worn path into finance or consulting, José paused. The thought of cubicles, dress codes, and performance evaluations left him cold. He didn’t want to spend his life analyzing spreadsheets for companies whose names sounded like passwords. He wanted something real. Tangible. Warm.

So he pivoted. Left the track entirely.

He chose coffee. Not because it was easy, but because it was human. Because it meant looking someone in the eye every morning, offering them something made with care, and getting a nod, a thank-you, or, on good days, a smile. He liked that. It grounded him.

He rented a modest apartment above the café where he worked, a building with slanted floors, thin walls, the occasional mouse. The air smelled permanently of espresso and damp brick. At night, he could hear the espresso machine being cleaned and the thud of bins being dragged out back. Still, it was home. Simple. Close to work. The landlord left him alone. And besides, it gave him time to save.

José didn’t spend much. No car, no expensive clothes, no nights out, unless they involved a walk and a cheap slice of pizza. All his extra cash went into a savings account labeled “Café Downtown.” That was the dream. A space of his own, tucked into a busy corner of the city. He envisioned warm lighting, chalkboard menus with hand-lettered specials, a musical playlist that made people feel something and some of his own paintings displayed on the walls. A place with real tables, not cold counters. He’d work there with someone good with baking, someone who could bake the kind of cinnamon rolls that drew people back the next day. Not mass-produced, not Instagram-chic. Just… honest.

Because that was the real dream: not to sell coffee, but to create a space where people stayed. Lingered. Talked. Maybe even connected.

For now, he opens the shop every morning at 6:30 a.m. sharp. He knew most of the regulars by their orders, if not their names. The corporate crowd, the tired students, the gig workers with headphones and half-charged laptops. He liked the rhythm. The brief, familiar rushes. The quiet between them. He didn’t mind being invisible, he had chosen this life on purpose. It gave him clarity.

And clarity, he believed, was the first step to building anything worthwhile.

At 9:30 a.m., when the flurry of early risers and office-goers gave way to a lull, José flipped the sign to “Closed” and locked the door behind him. The coffee shop fell into a rare silence, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant rattle of traffic outside. It was his time. The world slowed down, José exhaled as he climbed the narrow back staircase to his apartment above the shop.

Upstairs, in a space no larger than a single subway car, he slipped off his apron, poured himself a cup of leftover drip, and turned toward the far corner of the room. His sanctuary. His art corner. It was improvised but intentional. A worn rug beneath the easel caught stray drops of paint, and a small stool, picked up from a flea market, sat beside it, speckled with color. Brushes were arranged in glass jars, grouped by size and shape, each one cleaned with the kind of care that suggested reverence. The smell of turpentine clung faintly to the air, blending with the lingering aroma of espresso from downstairs.

The canvases leaned against the wall like silent companions, some blank, others half-finished, none framed. José painted what he felt: fractured skylines, faceless figures, long shadows cast over imagined cities. His work was emotional, unfiltered. A contrast to the tidy, transactional nature of serving coffee. Here, he wasn’t responding to orders or social pleasantries. He was just expressing.

He’d lose hours here, often forgetting to eat. Not because he hoped for fame or galleries, though he wouldn’t mind seeing one of his paintings hanging in a quiet bookstore or tucked in the corner of a local café, but because painting brought him back to himself. It reminded him of who he was before the grind, before the expectations, before the visa paperwork and long shifts. It was a form of survival. Of remembering.

At 2:45 p.m., he’d start cleaning up, rinsing brushes, covering palettes, setting his coffee mug in the sink. At 3:00 p.m. sharp, the sign flipped back to “Open,” and José was again the barista, sleeves rolled up, smile practiced, voice soft. He served until 8:00 p.m., never rushed, never slow. Just present.

Weekends, he kept the doors shut. Saturdays and Sundays were slow anyway, and José valued the time too much to waste waiting for the occasional wanderer. Those two days were his, reserved for long walks, for markets, for sketches in the park and late breakfasts made with care.

For dreams, slowly shaped in coffee and paint.

From the wide, slightly fogged window of his shop, José could see the train platform clearly. Each morning, the same stream of people passed by - briefcases swinging, earbuds in, eyes glazed with the haze of early hours. Most were a blur. Names unknown. Faces indistinct. But one stood out.

She was young, probably in her early twenties, always dressed like she’d stepped out of an ad for effortless chic, though the effort was obvious if you knew what to look for. A scarf knotted just so, a cardigan with perfectly rolled sleeves, her phone held at an angle that suggested she might be vlogging, even when she wasn’t. And always, without change, the same order: “Caffé Latte.”

Or, at least, that’s what it had become. When she first started coming in, her pronunciation had a flourish to it - “Kaffe oo laat,” she’d say, adding a mock-European lilt that was more performance than habit. José remembered the first time she said it, all confidence and charm, like she was trying to audition for a role he hadn’t asked her to play. He hadn’t corrected her. He just smiled, nodded, and made her drink.

But over the weeks, something had changed. She dropped the accent. Her request became simple, grounded. “Caffé Latte, please.” No twirl, no lift of the chin. Just a girl asking for her coffee.

José had found that... oddly endearing.

It wasn’t about the coffee. She wasn’t the type to debate roast profiles or wax poetic about single-origin beans. But she had a presence. She lingered, not long, just a second or two more than most. And when she smiled, it was with the kind of warmth that made him forget, for a moment, that the line behind her existed at all.

He started looking forward to those moments. Her arrival. The brief exchange. The chance to watch her as she walked toward the platform, sipping carefully, cup held with one hand, phone in the other. She had no idea he was watching, and he wasn’t watching in the way people sometimes do with longing. No, it was quieter than that. Curiosity, maybe. Admiration. The beginning of something that hadn't named itself yet.

Some people pass through your day like background noise. Others, just a few, become melodies.

And lately, José realized, she had become his.

José started to anticipate her arrival before he even saw her. Each morning, when the clock ticked toward the familiar rush of 7:15 a.m., he began preparing her coffee. He knew her order by heart now. Caffé Latte, a perfect balance of espresso and steamed milk. He timed it to perfection, making sure the foam swirled just right, waiting for her to step through the door, so that it was ready the moment she approached the counter.

But after a while, José realized that if he handed her the coffee too quickly, she would grab it with a smile, nod her thanks and disappear in a hurry. There was no time for conversation, no chance to connect. He wanted more than that. He wanted to stretch those moments, those few seconds she stood at the counter, exchanging pleasantries, maybe even glancing up at him as he handed her the cup.

So, he started slowing down. He moved a little slower, just enough to create space, to buy those extra seconds. He’d make sure the coffee was perfect, but not rush the handoff. He’d add a little extra foam. A touch more care. And when she finally stepped up to the counter, he’d take his time - making eye contact, smiling just a little longer, offering a soft "How’s your morning?" as he placed the cup gently in her hands.

She didn’t show if she noticed the change. Maybe she thought he was just being polite. But José could tell, the way she started to linger a moment longer, the way she’d glance over at him just before walking out the door. Those extra seconds, those brief pauses, meant more to him than she could ever know.

It wasn’t just the way she smiled. It wasn’t just the coffee or her request. It was the scent she left behind. The faint fragrance of roses and freshly cut grass would linger in the air after she’d gone, a ghost of her presence that seemed to fill the space in a way he hadn’t expected. It was a scent that reminded him of his aunt, his mother’s sister, who had also moved from their small village in Porto to work as an accountant in the bustling chaos of New York. His aunt’s house had been a sanctuary, a place where time slowed, where the air smelled like the earth itself, and where José had learned that sometimes the most important things weren’t said out loud.

She’d taught him to savor the quiet moments, to let things unfold at their own pace. Lisa - her name - had a way of making everything feel meaningful, even the smallest gestures.

José had done something he never imagined he’d do. He had Googled the girl on the platform. Well, not exactly her, but her social media accounts. He wasn’t stalking her, he assured himself. It was just curiosity. Just an attempt to understand more about this woman who had subtly begun to capture his attention in a way he hadn’t expected.

From her account, he learned that her name was Rachael and she was from New York, though that wasn’t a surprise. The city seemed to suit her, from the bits and pieces she shared. But it was the rest of her life he hadn’t known - the photos of Rachael in front of mirrors, posing in new outfits, the pictures of street art, of musicals she had attended. There were posts of her auditions, the eager smiles, the hope that lingered in the captions: “Maybe this is the one!” Her ambition to be an actress was clear, woven into the fabric of her life. But as time passed, her posts seemed to shift. The updates on her acting career slowed, and in their place came pictures of home décor, of fresh flowers in vases, cozy family dinners, moments of quiet contentment. It was clear that something had changed for her.

Two days ago, she’d asked him a question that caught him off guard. “Hey,” she said casually, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “Would you want to grab a coffee… sometime? Like, not this coffee. Ah, you know, other coffee.”

Her question sparked excitement that bubbled in José’s chest. Of course, he’d smiled. Who wouldn’t want to share a cup of coffee with someone as charming as her? But that wasn’t what he wanted. Not just another hurried coffee grab before the rush of the day swept them away.

He wanted more than that. He wanted her to linger, to slow down, to enjoy the moment. The idea of just handing her a cup and exchanging pleasantries seemed too fleeting, too insignificant. He wanted a connection that wasn’t wrapped in the pressure of time. So, instead of agreeing to her suggestion, José had thought for a moment and then suggested something else. “How about dinner instead?” he had said, his voice steady but his heart racing a little.

It was a risk, he knew. Dinner wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It would require time, attention, maybe even conversation beyond the surface. But something inside told him that this was the right way to go. A coffee would be easy, simple. But dinner... dinner meant there was space for them to be real. To talk, to laugh, to experience something together without the rush of a thousand things pulling them in different directions.

And so, when she had agreed, José felt something move. It wasn’t just the promise of a meal, it was the chance to learn more about her, to see beyond the smile she gave him at the counter, beyond the surface of a customer he served every day. He had seen the pictures on her social media, but those were only pieces of a larger story. He wanted to know her. Not as a customer or an online persona, but as a person.

It was Friday, the last office day of the week. The buzz of the weekend approaching lingered in the air, an undercurrent of anticipation. When Rachael stepped into the coffee shop that morning, José was already prepared. He had made her usual order without thinking, the routine of it as familiar to him as breathing. But today felt different, there was a nervous excitement simmering beneath the surface.

He smiled as she approached, his eyes brightening. There was something about her presence that made everything feel a little more alive, a little more meaningful. His voice was steady, though he could feel the flutter in his chest as he greeted her.

"Good morning, Rachael," he said warmly, hoping the calm tone didn’t betray the quickening of his pulse. "I hope your week has been good. I was thinking about... would you still like to meet up tonight for dinner? We can go for a walk later and get to know each other better."

Her gaze flickered up to meet his, for a moment, he felt the weight of the quiet between them. She blinked, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks. His heart thudded in his chest, an unexpected rush of warmth flooding through him. She smiled, hesitant, but genuine, and nodded.

"Yes, that sounds really nice," she said, her voice light, yet there was a vulnerability to it that José couldn’t ignore.

A small, victorious smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He’d wanted this, since her question, he expected she’d say yes, but hearing it made it all the more real. José’s heart raced just a little faster, and he imagined the possibilities stretching out before him - more than just coffee breaks, more than just fleeting exchanges in the rush of daily life.

Maybe this could be something. Maybe there was more to them than just brief moments of connection behind the counter. Maybe, just maybe, they’d laugh over dinner and discover shared dreams. The dream of opening a coffee shop, a cozy space full of warmth and welcoming smiles, with a counter overflowing with freshly baked cookies. And what if Rachael would be there with him, helping make it happen?

But for now, José was content with the small moments, the ones that felt like the beginning of something bigger. The slow-building connection that seemed to unfold naturally, like the careful brewing of a perfect cup of coffee.

"Perfect," he said, his voice trying to remain calm, but the excitement couldn’t quite be masked. “I close at eight,” he said. “Come by then.”

As she turned to leave, José watched her go, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer than usual. He leaned against the counter, his hand resting on the edge as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn’t know where this was going, but something told him it would be worth the journey. Maybe it was the warmth of the smile she’d given him, or the way her eyes had softened when she agreed. He wasn’t sure, but he was eager to find out.

As the door jingled shut behind her, José felt a lightness in his chest, the familiar rhythm of the shop now carrying a new energy, a new possibility.