The espresso machine hissed loudly as it brewed the cup of black coffee.
Isaac had chosen a stronger bean because the guest had looked quite tired. He hadn't done it out of kindness, but out of sheer professionalism.
He was still irritated by the guest who had stared too much.
Isaac had been working as a barista at Café Noir for so long that he could tell how most guests needed their coffee just by looking at the tip of their nose, and his current guest definitely needed something stronger. The dark circles under his eyes had been impossible to miss, and really, he should have been catching up on sleep instead of fueling himself with caffeine.
But who was he to judge?
When he thought about it more closely, he didn't really care what happened to the man once he left the café anyway.
He knew what he looked like and how he came across to other people. His albino appearance had already earned him many looks and comments, both good and bad. In a way, he was even used to being stared at.
That didn't make it any less uncomfortable. On the contrary. He hated it.
Most guests at Café Noir didn't give any thought to how their gawking affected him. Fortunately, it usually stopped after the first encounter. After a few minutes, politeness or simple habit would prevail, and Isaac's otherness would turn into nothing more than a marginal note.
So he did what he always did: his job.
He placed the cup of coffee on a small tray and added the egg sandwiches. He arranged everything neatly and then picked up the tray to bring it to the guest. The man was sitting in a corner hidden by a large houseplant. It was a nice, quiet spot—and one where you still had a good view of the café itself, while other guests couldn't easily look into that corner.
Isaac would have chosen the same seat if he had been a guest instead of the one serving them.
The man had set up a laptop and was completely focused on whatever was on the screen.
At least this time he didn't pay Isaac any attention. So Isaac set the order down on the little remaining free space. He didn't feel like wishing him a pleasant meal, and yet he had to. He was obligated to keep the guests satisfied. So he murmured a rather quiet, "Enjoy your meal," and turned away so he wouldn't have to linger near the guest any longer.
But before he could disappear behind the counter again, the guest spoke to him.
"Thank you," the man said.
Isaac paused. The voice sounded tired, rough, a little gruff—as if the man hadn't slept properly in a long time. Reluctantly, Isaac cast a brief glance back.
The man had black hair, a bit too long. It had probably once been meant to be a stylish cut, but by now not much of that remained. The strands fell chaotically into his face, as if they themselves had given up on holding any shape. Aside from that, he was in desperate need of a shave, and his skin practically cried out for a bit of lotion. He didn't even want to start on the dark circles under his eyes.
He gave a brief nod without smiling and turned back to his work.
The man looked a little unkempt. Not in an obvious way—his clothes were clean, tidy, free of wrinkles. He even still smelled faintly of deodorant and the fresh, neutral scent of soap. It looked as though he had showered quite recently. So maybe he was simply too lazy, or too overworked, to take proper care of himself?
Whatever the reason, he didn't seem to be homeless.
So he didn't seem to be homeless. A fact that reassured Isaac. He didn't keep the café clean so that everyone could bring their dirt inside.
The man looked as though he wanted to say something else. His lips parted slightly, then closed again. Isaac, however, had little desire to engage with him further. In the meantime, new guests had entered, and since he was still working alone, it was up to him to serve them. He simply didn't have the time to deal with the man any longer.
He turned away and was immediately reminded of his boss's words.
"Isaac. You need to be friendlier to the guests. Who wants to enjoy their coffee after being given the cold shoulder by you?"
Isaac stopped and sighed softly. He glanced over his shoulder and looked at the man again.
"Something like that happens all the time, so don't worry about it," he said, and returned to the counter without waiting for the man's reaction.
He served customers continuously until around 1 p.m., when his boss arrived. At the moment, several colleagues were on vacation or sick, so they were trying to have the shifts overlap a little.
By that time, the staring guest had already drunk five more coffees and still seemed very absorbed in whatever he was doing on his laptop. At least, he made no move to leave the café again. After all, he had been there for nearly five hours. They hadn't really spoken much to each other since then.
At least the man worked very quietly, and only occasionally was the clicking of his keyboard to be heard when he typed something again.
Admittedly, it was almost pleasant to have him as a guest in the café. He was very quiet, and once he needed a new coffee, he wouldn't need anything else for a long time. Isaac no longer really minded the man's presence and simply went on with his work. The man became background noise that he could easily tune out.
"Good morning, Isaac," his boss greeted him with a smile. He glanced briefly around the shop. "As I can see, everything is very clean again. Good job."
Isaac gave him a brief nod while preparing the next coffee.
"Thank you."
"Did anything noteworthy happen?" his boss asked as he took off his designer coat and casually draped it over his arm.
"No," Isaac replied. "Everything was as usual."
"I knew I could rely on you," his boss said with satisfaction.
Isaac didn't look over at him, but he could hear the smile in his voice.
He carefully arranged the coffee along with another drink and two pieces of cake on a tray. With practiced motions, he decorated the cups and plates, checked the arrangement one last time, and picked up the tray. His boss had already disappeared into the break room to change, so Isaac took the opportunity to serve the two female customers—probably his last ones for the day.
He went over to the table where a blonde woman with long, soft, blonde curls was sitting, along with another woman who had straight, shoulder-length brown hair. They looked stylish and were probably around Isaac's age. The blonde shot him a flirtatious look and adopted a posture that gave Isaac an open view of her cleavage. Subtle, yes—but her intentions were clear. Isaac set the coffee down on her table first, then accidentally spilled a little.
"Thank you very much," the blonde said kindly. "Do you have to work much longer?"
Isaac gave her a brief glance and then set down the cake.
"No," he answered.
She smiled confidently. With a smooth motion, she rested her chin on her hands and looked at him through her long, dark eyelashes.
"Would you like to join us after your shift? We could do a bit of shopping and then get something to eat. A new restaurant just opened nearby and—"
"Excuse me," Isaac interrupted her politely but coolly. "I have to get back to work. Enjoy your cake."
Without waiting for a response, he turned away and left the two women at their table. He still heard one of them call him rude, but he didn't really care.
"Ouch," his boss commented dryly as Isaac stepped back behind the counter. "Another heart broken?"
"To break a heart, there would first have to be feelings involved," Isaac replied coolly.
"You could at least give it a try. After all, you're approached pretty often."
"No interest," Isaac said. "Thanks."
His boss sighed. "I suppose there's nothing that can be done about that."
By now, his boss was wearing the apron that every employee wore; pinned to it was a small brooch with the café's logo and his name—Kieran. He had tied his sand-colored long hair into a bun and was wearing a light cashmere sweater.
Kieran was older than Isaac, and the café was his baby. He had opened it himself, and he did everything he could to make sure it ran well and that his employees were taken care of.
"Next week Noah and Inka will be back from vacation, then we can staff the early shift better again," he said apologetically. "I really hate making you handle the entire shift on your own."
In truth, Isaac preferred it that way. It was quieter, and unlike usual, he could actually focus on his work.
"As you know, I don't have a problem working alone," he replied calmly as he untied his apron.
Kieran studied him briefly but didn't say anything else.
Since Kieran was finally there, Isaac could end his shift. The portafilter was prepared, all work surfaces were clean, and the guests were taken care of. There was no one left who could hold him up.
"I know. Still, even though you do your job really well, I always feel guilty when you have to work here alone, especially in the mornings."
Isaac was just hanging up his apron and grabbing his shoulder bag. Then he closed his locker and cast one last glance at Kieran.
"It's less stressful than you think," Isaac replied calmly. "See you tomorrow."
Kieran sighed softly but let the matter drop. "See you tomorrow, Isaac. Have a nice afternoon."
Isaac nodded to him politely and then left the café. He glanced at his phone's display. Fortunately, he had gotten out of there in time. He needed to hurry a bit, because his job at the café wasn't his only one—and the other was far more urgent.
Still, he was doing pretty well time-wise, even though he still had a lot to do.
So he didn't waste any more time and headed for his apartment.
___
Stroke by stroke, the painting gradually took on clearer form. Over the past few days, he had refined it tirelessly, layer by layer, and yet he kept discovering new little details he could improve. Painting was a work of calm—a task to which he devoted himself with his whole heart.
When he thought about all the activities he pursued, painting was probably the one that gave him the greatest joy.
His mind was quiet when he painted. He didn't have to worry about anything, and in the stillness of the night his creativity seemed to be at its peak. It was the time when everyone slept or relaxed in silence.
Just as he used the night to finish his paintings, because there was nothing he loved more than the quiet in which he could devote himself to this work. He generally appreciated calm surroundings—but unfortunately, he wasn't often granted that luxury.
He hummed softly along to the music as he continued to focus on the fine details he was working into the painting.
Suddenly, his ringtone blared loudly in his ear, breaking the silence of the night. The abrupt ringing of his phone tore him out of his concentration. He sighed quietly.
So much for his nighttime oasis of calm. He glanced at his phone's display, only to realize that it was already well past two in the morning. He had completely lost track of time while painting. He turned off the music he had been listening to through his headphones, pulled the right earbud from his ear, and answered the call.
He didn't need to ask who it was.
At this hour, only one person would be calling him.
"This is Isaac," he answered calmly. "What is it, Boss?"
"Hello, Isaac," came the dark, characteristically dominant voice of the boss. "How far along are you with the assignment?"
Isaac looked at the painting he was currently working on.
"The first one is almost finished. I think I should have the job completed by the end of next week," Isaac replied respectfully.
"So it will be finished on time for the deadline? Very good. You really are reliable."
"Thank you very much, Boss," Isaac said politely. "I will deliver the painting to you two days before the deadline. I'll probably be finished a bit earlier."
"I'll be expecting the delivery," the boss said with satisfaction. "Remember to make the necessary preparations."
"Of course. I'll take care of everything," Isaac promised. "The deadline is still May 21st, correct?"
"Exactly. If there are any changes, I'll inform you. I don't need to explain how important this assignment is, do I?"
"Of course not. I'll handle everything as usual. You can rely on me."
"Good boy. I expect the delivery."
Then the line went dead.
Isaac slowly exhaled and set his phone aside. For a moment, he leaned back in his chair and let his gaze wander over the painting. Only ten days left. It was doable—tight, but doable.
The light reflected softly off the meticulously detailed angel wings. His gaze followed the graceful lines of the body, the elegant, gentle facial features. The angel appeared just, androgynous, radiant, and yet unreachable.
Exactly as he had imagined him.
He was satisfied with the painting. But unfortunately, he was far from finished. He was known for his love of detail and for the ethereal quality of his artwork—even though he painted beautiful angels rather rarely and usually favored a more destructive, dystopian style.
It had been refreshing to paint something different again. After all, his commissions ensured that his creativity was occasionally guided in a new direction. Still, he was looking forward to painting something again that aligned more closely with his own style.
His gaze drifted to his phone's display. It was already half past two in the morning. He stood up and stretched his tense muscles, then washed out his brush and tidied everything up neatly. His day would begin in just a few hours, and he really should allow himself a few hours of sleep.
With one last look at the painting, he turned off the light in his studio, closed the door, and left his latest work of art in complete darkness.