Café Athena

Every morning at precisely 6:45, Dimitris adjusts his grip on his maple cane and pushes open the heavy glass door of Café Athena. The bell chimes softly – they never did fix that tinny note – and Maria looks up from behind the counter with the same warm smile she's worn for the past decade.

"Your usual, Mr. Dimitris?"

He nods, easing himself into his chair by the window. Third table from the door, always the same spot. He had chosen precisely this table, not far from the door, but sheltered from the breeze, far from the commotion of the counter but close enough to listen in the ongoing conversations.

The morning light streams through the glass, warming his arthritis-stricken hands as he arranges his things: cane hooked over the chair's back, reading glasses placed but not worn, morning paper folded beside the napkin holder.

The regulars arrive like clockwork. At 7:00, Anna hurries in, her heels clicking against the tile floor. Always ordering a double espresso, always checking her phone while she waits. She's been coming here since she was an intern; now she wears tailored suits and supervises others.

By 7:15, the morning rush begins. Dimitris savours his double Greek coffee – his one daily transgression against doctor's orders, made the traditional way as Maria's grandmother taught her. "Life's too short for decaf," he always says, though he's proved quite the opposite, at eighty-three. Maria always raises an eyebrow at his order refraining from useless cautions. He cradles the precious cup, breathing in the forbidden aroma, and watches the parade of humanity.

Young George from the bank across the street gets his Americano with an extra shot, dreaming of managing the branch in a decade. The twins from the flower shop, down the corner, share a pastry, always fighting about who does the cutting and who the picking; their fingers dusted with powdered sugar as they giggle over neighbourhood gossip.

But today, something's different.

The man in the charcoal suit catches Dimitris's attention immediately. Not because of his expensive clothes or his polished shoes, but because of how he watches the door. He's been nursing the same cup of coffee for thirty minutes, his phone untouched on the table. In all his years of people-watching, Dimitris knows the difference between waiting and watching.

At 7:45, like every morning, Elena walks in. She's worked at the pharmacy next door for three years, always ordering chamomile tea with honey. But today, the man in the charcoal suit stands up so quickly his chair scrapes against the floor. Elena freezes on her toes, the colour leaving her face.

"You can't be here. You have no right!" she whispers, but in the morning lull, her words carry.

The man steps forward. "Elena, please. Just five minutes. I need to speak to you...."

Dimitris watches as Maria tenses behind the counter, her hand reaching for the phone. But before she can dial, Elena straightens her spine and speaks loudly and calmly, with a coolness that could freeze the Aegean.

"I have a restraining order, Alexis. Or did you forget?"

The café goes silent. Even the espresso machine seems to hold its breath. Dimitris grips his cane, ready to stand despite his protesting joints. But then young George appears at Elena's side, his banking ID hanging from his neck.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, and something in his steady stance makes the man in the charcoal suit step back.

"No problem," he mutters, dropping a few euros on his table before hurrying out. The bell chimes its broken note behind him.

Elena's hands shake as she approaches the counter, but Maria already has her tea ready, with extra honey. George hovers nearby until Elena assures him she's fine, that it's over. It's just that some people can't accept when a story ends.

As the morning rhythm slowly returns to normal, Dimitris notices small things he's missed before: George's eyes linger on Elena as she leaves with her tea; Maria keeps glancing at the door, protective as a mother hen; and the twins leave the cafe hand in hand, having already forgotten their morning squabble.

At 10:00, the last forbidden drops of his double Greek coffee long finished, and the morning paper read twice over. When Dimitris finally rises to leave, as he usually does, Maria stops him.

"I saw you, ready with your cane, weren't you?" she asks softly. "To help if needed?"

Dimitris smiles, pats her hand and replies:

"After years of observing people, I have learned that sometimes the determination to take a stance is enough. I know I wouldn't have offered much help if it came to that, but my attitude motivated the youngster to step up instead of me. This is filotimo, my dear, and our youngsters still have it! " he concludes proudly.

The bell chimes its broken note as he leaves, but somehow today it sounds less like a flaw and more like a reminder that imperfect things can still serve their purpose perfectly well.

As he slowly walks home, leaning on his cane, Dimitris thinks about today's events. Even after all these years, people still manage to surprise him. They show courage when you least expect it, kindness in the smallest moments, and strength in cups of chamomile tea with extra honey. Tomorrow morning, he'll be there at 6:45, in his usual spot, watching life unfold through the café window.

Some might think his morning routine is boring and tedious, but Dimitris knows better. The violin teacher who caught his eye this morning intrigued him particularly - her presence both delicate and determined. She'd ordered mint tea, cradling the cup while humming Vivaldi, her violin case propped carefully against the table. When her phone rang, she'd spoken in rapid Japanese to what sounded like a student's parent, then shifted seamlessly to French with the next caller. Such adaptability reminded him of his late wife, who could switch between four languages while haggling at the market.

The Eastern European construction worker with his café con leche had drawn his attention too. His effort to speak correct Greek to what must have been his daughter - discussing advanced calculus in between sips and cradling his phone with his weathered hands, as he spoke softly. His gentle corrections of her mathematics carrying all the pride and patience of a father trying to build a better future through education.

But most intriguingly, there was the silver-haired woman who'd lingered outside, studying the menu with such hesitation. Her Hermès scarf and perfectly tailored coat spoke of wealth, but her eyes carried that particular loneliness Dimitris had seen before - the look of someone who'd recently lost their usual breakfast companion. She'd stood there for nearly five minutes, one hand almost reaching for the door before turning away. The way she'd glanced at the couples sharing morning coffee told him everything - another widow or widower, trying to find new routines in a world suddenly emptied of partnership.

He knew she'd be back. He'd seen that same look in his own mirror after Sophia passed - the desperate need for normalcy warring with the fear of familiar pleasures now made painful by solitude. Yes, she would return, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week. And when she did, he'd make sure Maria saved that quiet corner table, the one Sophia had always preferred, where the morning light was gentle and the coffee arrived without needing to be ordered.

Because even after all these years, people still surprise him. They show courage when you least expect it, kindness in the smallest moments, strength in cups of chamomile tea with extra honey. New characters enter the stage of his café theatre daily, each carrying stories he yearns to uncover.

Every day is a story waiting to be witnessed, and he has the best seat in the house. Tomorrow there'll be new faces among the familiar ones, new threads to add to the tapestry of lives he observes. He's already looking forward to the next chapter, especially to seeing if the silver-haired woman finds the courage to step inside and begin her own journey of recovery through morning rituals.