"To , Nolan will always be the most perfect man in the world. Nothing he did will change the way I see him."
Chapter 2: My Perfect World II
As always, half an hour after opening, the door bell rang, announcing the arrival of a beloved regular.
"Mr. Arrit! Mr. Arrit!" I called from the counter. "Good morning! Good morning!"
He returned the greeting with a barely-lifted hand, making his way to his seat before placing his order.
He doesn’t need to look at the nu. He simply repeats his routine — sitting at the second window table, the one facing the main street. Hanging his hat on the back of the chair, as he has done since before I ever ca to this place. A classic Mr. Arrit move.
Nolan was already coming out of the kitchen with his coffee in hand before Mr. Arrit had even finished settling in.
"No sugar, as always," my blond said, setting the cup down carefully.
He scratched his chin. "Ever since they told about the cholesterol I don’t have much choice," he replied, letting out his Santa Claus laugh. "That’s why it’s not good to go to the hospital — you’re fine until they give you a diagnosis."
Nolan gave him a pat on the shoulder and asked about his grandson, about Sunday’s match, about the leak in the roof of his jam shop. Mr. Arrit answered everything with the sa enthusiasm, as if Nolan were the first person to ask him anything in weeks.
Maybe he was.
"What if I co by Friday and fix that leak?" he offered, with a smile so bright I swear I could see the gleam on his teeth. "But in exchange, Sunday you invite us to your grandson’s match."
"That would be wonderful, young man," he replied, letting out his laugh while scratching his beard. "I’d love for you to co see little Tomás. But you can’t close the business."
Nolan gave him a small pat on the back. "Don’t worry — Ryne already works hard enough. A day off wouldn’t do her any harm."
I nodded from a distance, wiping a pitcher for the fifth ti.
At four o’clock Mrs. Prats arrives — I’ve never found any pattern in her schedule. Being the owner of a nearby hair salon, she takes a lot of liberties with when to open and close.
She always cos in with her fabric bag and her orange scarf, which she wears from October through March without exception. She sat at the bar, on the third stool, and smiled at with that broad way that people have when they’ve grown old without growing bitter.
"You look wonderful today, dear," she greeted , settling her bag down carefully.
"You always say the sa thing, Mrs. Prats," I smiled, setting down the pitcher and starting to pour water into a cup.
"Because it’s always true," she replied, resting her elbows on the bar. "How lovely your hair is. How do you keep it so white at your age?"
I touched one of my strands, pinching it between my fingers.
"Honestly I don’t know, Mrs. Prats," I confessed, opening a chamomile sachet. "My parents were blonde, and although their hair wasn’t white like mine, it was already quite a light shade."
"So you weren’t born with albinism? My daughter told you were albino."
"No, no, nothing like that," I shook my head and hands. "I was just born with less lanin than normal — it’s nothing serious, nothing to worry about."
"You’re right, dear," she smiled, pointing at the nu. "Could I have a chamomile tea? You know, my favorite."
"With honey and lemon," I said, winking.
She settled her face into her hands with a soft exhale. "What a lovely girl," she declared, stroking her cheeks. "Always as beautiful as a silver queen."
At that mont, the world stretched and contracted without a clear rhythm. My fingers tried to reach the honey jar, but the distance kept growing — like Achilles and the tortoise, endlessly receding.
Crack.
"Are you alright, Ryne!" Mrs. Prats cried, jumping from her seat. I managed to co back, seeing the half-made cup of tea shattered on the floor. "What happened?"
The white ceramic against the wooden floor made a horrible contrast. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Prats," I said, grabbing the cloth to pick up the pieces. "I’ll make you another one right away, don’t worry."
"Don’t stress yourself, dear," she said in that classic sweet tone of hers. "Wait for it to cool down a little first. So you don’t burn yourself, sweetheart."
I nodded, feeling how that simple tone quieted the noise in my head. "Thank you," I said, straightening up. "Let prepare you another one." I took a new cup.
But from the kitchen, my magician appeared. "Are you alright, Ryne?" he asked, looking at the cup on the floor. As a reflex he took my hand, examining it in ticulous detail. "Don’t you dare pick that up with your hands — I’ll go get a dustpan."
He walked away, while Mrs. Prats stroked her cheeks as if she were tasting sothing sweet. "How lovely they are," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Young love is so beautiful." From her shirt, she pulled out a Catholic charm — a silver cross. "I always knew they’d end up together, but I never thought it would take them this long."
"Why do you say that?"
"If I had been you, I would have confessed to my boss the very first week I t him," she smiled. "I don’t know how you held out two years before throwing yourself into his arms."
I looked at the broken cup, thinking of an answer this world would accept. "I wanted to make sure he was the right one," I smiled. "He’s the man of my dreams."
I made her chamomile tea with honey and lemon as she had ordered, and set it in front of her with a butter cookie on the plate even though she hadn’t asked for one. She didn’t say anything. She just picked it up, ate it, and smiled at again.
That’s how Tuesdays are. My perfect Tuesdays.
At six in the evening, the café takes on a livelier color.
Four tables occupied, the bar with two more people, the sound of conversations blended with the jazz Nolan always plays from his phone — sothing calm, wordless, that covers the noise of my anxiety.
He moved between the tables like a circus perforr. I sotis wondered where he had perfected the technique of carrying nine cups at once without spilling a single drop.
"Yes, he must be a wizard," I confessed, rembering the first ti I saw him.
He collected empty cups, asked each custor if they needed anything, creating such a perfect harmony in the place that it replaced noise with order.
I worked the bar and watched him. I prepared the simple orders that he delivered. Only occasionally did soone ask for sothing to eat, and if we didn’t have it, he went into the kitchen and made it in under five minutes.
At the busiest point of Tuesdays, we always found ourselves behind the counter together, working in a harmony all our own.
"Ryne, the lactose-free milk," he called from the other end, at the exact mont I finished steaming it with the machine’s hot wand.
"Coming," I tossed it over, and he caught it like a baseball receiver, pouring a maple leaf design.
"And that’s the last one," said Nolan, leaning on his knees. "We make a great team." He held out his hand. "High five."
Slap! We high-fived.
In that mont, my world stopped in his erald eyes, gleaming in the light of the decorative streetlamps. It was only a second, and that was enough to make fall more in love with him. I think the effect was mutual, because he leaned toward , kissing on the forehead, running his hand through my hair.
"In this light your hair looks yellow," he whispered in my ear. "It’s a beautiful color, like your chamomile eyes."
Mrs. Prats sighed from her stool, nearly knocking over her third tea.
"Twenty years of marriage and my husband never treated like that," she said with a hand on her cheek. "They’re so lovely."
We didn’t respond — they were surely her recurring thoughts out loud. All we could do was laugh in the middle of the mont, trying to pretend we hadn’t heard. I’m embarrassed to say it, but her words made the veins of my heart swell, pumping more blood in a way that I liked.
This is mine. This place, this afternoon, this man.
At quarter to seven the last custor left, leaving us alone.
Nolan turned down the music while I started lifting the chairs. He cleaned the kitchen, I counted the register, the two of us in silence, enjoying the last mont of our routine.
When I finished with the inside chairs I went out to collect the two from the sidewalk.
"I’ll get those, stay inside!" he called from the kitchen, coming out with the still-dripping mop in hand.
"I’m almost done," I told him, picking up the first one. "I need to get the umbrella too."
"Ryne," he called again. "Let be a gentleman."
I paused for a mont with the chair in my hands, looking at him from the doorway. He had the mop dripping onto the floor he had just cleaned, his apron twisted, and that face of his he makes when he thinks he’s winning an argunt.
I loved him most in those monts.
"You’re impossible, Nolan," I whispered. "If you really want to be a gentleman, take out to eat!"
"Who says I can’t do both?" he went back to the kitchen to finish mopping.
"I do," I smiled. "Because I already brought them in." I closed the door. "You’ve already broken one of your promises — you’re breaking my heart, Nolan."
"And I’m the impossible one?" he poked his head out with the most exaggerated expression in the world. "Think about where you want to go, you little cheater."
I laughed at his words.
"You hired ," I called back. "It’s my duty to keep my twenty-four consecutive recognitions as employee of the month. Then so guy nad Nolan cos along and beats ."
He laughed, giving that smile of his.
"Oh — the umbrella," I rembered, going back outside.
The street was almost empty at that hour. Just a cheerful couple of neighbors walking far off in the distance, and closer, a girl standing in front of the café window, looking inside with her hands in her pockets.
I couldn’t be certain from the distance, but she had a beautiful purple handkerchief tied with a clumsy knot around her wrist.
In the end she did nothing. She just looked. Then she walked on.
I followed her with my eyes until she turned the corner. I had never seen her before, and that made curious — and stirred sothing like noise.
"She must be so neighbor’s niece," I told myself, squeezing my right wrist with my hand. "Yes, that must be it."
I grabbed the umbrella.
It was while I was bringing it in that I heard him talking from the back door — in a warr voice, lighter, a voice he had never used with .
I stopped.
Not because I couldn’t keep walking. But because sothing in that tone, that specific warmth, lit sothing in my chest that took a second to recognize.
Around , the entire café began to warp: the chairs fell from their places and the windows clouded over. Everything lost its original shape and the order I worked so hard to maintain.
The noise had co back.
After such a perfect Tuesday.
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