The late-morning sun filtered through the glass panels of the small street-side café, scattering slanted beams of gold across the wooden tables. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air like tiny stars, giving the bustling space a soft, dreamy glow.
Outside, scooters zipped past and pedestrians chatted in quick bursts of Spanish, but inside, the café held a gentle warmth — the kind that made time slow down just enough.
The bell above the door jingled.
A young man stepped inside, shoulders relaxed but eyes sharp with purpose. He walked straight to the counter.
"Uh, excuse me?" he said, voice low but confident.
"One black espresso coffee."
"Sure," the barista replied, tapping the order in with practiced speed.
The customer nodded politely and drifted toward a small corner table by the wall — a quiet place just out of the way. He set down his backpack, placed a novel on the table, and flipped it open to where the worn bookmark rested.
The Taming of the Shrew.
Not the lightest read, but he didn't seem like the kind of person who shied away from anything difficult.
The café door jingled again, this time with a sharper rhythm. A young woman entered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she stepped up to the counter.
"One cappuccino," she said, "with whipped cream on top, please."
"Sure," the barista replied again.
She smiled faintly, then walked toward one of the tables bathed in soft sunlight. She sat, rested her elbows on the wooden surface, and looked out onto the busy street as if collecting thoughts she wasn't ready to share.
Time passed. Steam hissed from the espresso machine. The mingled scents of roasted beans and warm milk filled the air.
"Order number 82 and 83!" the barista called.
"Black coffee and cappuccino with whipped cream!"
Both customers rose.
The man picked up the black coffee cup labeled neatly with a name. The woman collected the cappuccino and headed for the exit.
Neither of them noticed that the barista, in the middle of conversation and a rush of orders, had mixed up the names.
The man returned to his table, slid his book aside with a soft thud, and lifted the hot cup with both hands. He liked savoring his food and drinks with full attention — no distractions, no divided senses. Just the moment.
He brought the cup to his lips.
sip.
His eyes widened.
It's… sweet?
Disbelief flickered across his face like someone had just told him the sky was green.
He turned the cup in his hands.
The name printed on it read: Sameera.
He exhaled through his nose — not annoyed, just resigned — and stood up to walk toward the counter.
"Excuse me," he began, "I think I have a mix—"
"EXCUSE ME!!"
The voice came from the entrance.
He and the barista both turned.
A woman in her mid-twenties stood framed by the open doorway, holding a coffee cup at arm's length like it was radioactive.
She strode to the counter.
"I have the wrong order," she declared. "It's hellishly bitter."
She squinted at the cup. "And this is for some… 'Sam'?"
The man lifted his cup slightly. "Ah. So you have my order."
He gave an apologetic half-smile. "I got yours by mistake."
He tapped the cup, chuckling. "That's why it was so deadly sweet."
Sameera winced. "Excuse me? Deadly?"
He shrugged lightly.
"Ah—sorry. But if my black coffee is hellish, then your cappuccino is definitely deadly."
The barista bowed her head.
"Ah—I'm so sorry. It's my fault."
The man waved a hand.
"Don't be. These things happen."
Sameera folded her arms. "At least my cappuccino is drinkable and tasty."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure. If you can get past all the whipped cream."
Her glare was quick, fiery, and almost cute.
He reached into his wallet, paid the difference for the cappuccino, and turned toward the door with the cup labeled Sameera in his hand.
He paused for just a second, meeting her eyes.
"Have a nice day," he said calmly.
Then he walked out — leaving Sameera holding her reclaimed, bitter black coffee like it was a personal insult crafted by destiny itself.
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