Chapter Text
One single slice of chocolate fudge cake and a Caffé Latté.
He always orders the same. It’s his usual, and never have I seen him eat something else.
He’ll wander in around noon. And he’ll sit down at the table in the corner. Right there, on the chair closest to the window. And he’ll stare outside while he waits for his order to arrive.
He spends about five minutes waiting for his order, but I always try to have it done earlier while still giving him enough time to settle down at the table. He takes some time to settle down; he’ll take in the view of the beach for the first minute or so. After that he’ll pull his big bag onto his lap, taking out his laptop and a notebook, so by the time I bring him his food he can start working.
There’s always documents opened on his computer, it’s also how I picked up his name one time. One time, already a couple of weeks ago, I took a short glance at his screen while putting down his coffee and noticed the name at the bottom of the page; Makoto Tachibana.
A name that doesn’t really suit him, but at the same time it really does.
He’s got olive brown, quite shaggy hair, and his eyes are a startlingly vivid green; the type of green that would glow in the dark. He’s got a strong build, and seeing as he’s always covered in grime and dust, I think he might be a builder or something. Though I don’t see how he contains so many muscles when he eats cake at least four times a week, if not more.
He’s sitting there now, glaring at his screen intensely from behind his glasses while overtyping the notes he made in his notebook. He just ordered a minute ago, so he’s doing work quicker than usual today; maybe he’s busy doing office work, or maybe he’s a college student with an exam coming up.
I don’t know, because outside of my little bakery near the beach, I never see the mysterious guy.
He walks it at noon, walks out again exactly forty-five minutes later; if he walks out only a minute or two too late, he always look extremely stressed out, so he must have a place to be in time.
I turn away from him, he must feel awkward when I’m staring at him the entire time, but it happens automatically since I only have one regular customer. Of course, I’ve got people who buy bread each Monday or Friday, but never have I seen the same customer a couple of times each week without really having spoken to him once. I’m interested in who he is, I found that out sooner than later.
While the Espresso is dripping into the cup, I carefully steam the milk until it’s foamy, but not too foamy, because I know he always leaves the foamiest part of the milk lying at the bottom of his cup. He’s got more strange habits like that, I’ve found out during the year that he’s been coming here.
Like, he always orders the chocolate fudge, even though I make the chocolate mocha cake fresh each morning. I think he does it because I always put a tuft of whipped cream onto the chocolate fudge cake; he takes this to his advantage, because instead of paying the extra fifty yen for a rather large amount of whipped cream with his coffee, he scoops up the whipped cream that I put on top of the cake. I’ve seen him do it, carefully mixing the cream through his hot coffee to make it creamier. He seems to like it better that way, probably because it’s less bitter, yet he’s never once ordered a Café Latté with whipped cream.
I pour the milk into the cup, watching it mix with the mix with the dark coffee. And to top it off, I try to make some simple latté art on top. I’m still practicing, but it works out pretty well this time.
I put down the cup onto a wooden serving tray, which already holds the slice of cake, but that’s not all I’m giving Tachibana today. He’s earned me so much money, I’m able pay my bills mainly because he eats here almost daily. The least I can do is give him something extra, without charging him for it of course. So I reach into the cabinet and get out a little shot-glass.
I’m sure Tachibana’s over twenty already, just like me, but I’m not going to pour him a glass of liquor; instead I fill the glass to the brim with fresh whipped cream, like I would do if he would’ve paid the extra fifty cents. I also put one of my fish shaped cheese cookies on the plate beside his coffee.
After putting everything down onto the tray, I step back and admire my work. Every single day I still enjoy creating the best-looking serving trays; using the pretty porcelain and trying to make a matching artwork of it. That’s what food is after all; art and beauty.
Content with the end result, I bring the tray with the coffee and the slice of chocolate cake to Tachibana’s table. I reach his table, stand there for a brief second, before saying, “Here’s your order.”
Tachibana looks up from his work and smiles kindly. “Thank you.”
Those are the only words we ever exchange; it’s the first rule my grandma, the previous owner of this bakery, taught me. She told me never to talk to my customers more than I need to; just take their order, deliver their food, and ask them if they liked their food when you’re having them pay afterwards. They don’t like it when you pry into their business, no matter how unbearable the curiosity becomes, I shouldn’t talk more than needed.
Tachibana watches me as I put down the food. Even though it makes me nervous when people watch my movements so closely, I’m careful not to spill any of the coffee over the edge of the cup.
After I succeed, I stand upright, give Tachibana a little bow telling him to enjoy his food before walking back to the counter. As I’m making my way back to my usual spot behind the counter, I hear Tachibana clearing his throat carefully.
“Uh, sir?” he sounds unsure, but in no way shy. “I didn’t order this.”
I turn around, my heart suddenly thumping loudly inside of my chest; did he order something else than usually? He always order exactly the same. I just do it so automatically by now, I don’t even think when making his food ready.
Tachibana looks a little guilty, as if he’s the one that made the biggest mistake out of the two of us.
I want to take back the food as retake his order completely, but then he gestures at the whipped cream and the little cookie beside the cup of coffee.
“It’s a little embarrassing—“ His cheeks turn a subtle shade of pink, I can barely notice the change, and he chuckles awkwardly. “—but I actually don’t have enough to pay for the whipped cream.”
I look at him, slightly confused, before shaking my head. “I know.”
Tachibana’s cheeks now are suddenly much, much, redder. “Y-You know that I’m poor?”
“No.” I glance away and tell him that I know he didn’t order the extra whipped cream. “I put it there on purpose, I won’t charge you for it.” Now I’m the one getting a little flustered. “Enjoy your meal.”
Tachibana frowns lightly, not in an angry, but confused rather. “I really can’t, sir.” Tachibana shakes his head and tries to hand me back the whipped cream. “That would be like stealing from you.”
I don’t know where to look; to my customer, or the floor, or maybe looking outside or at the food would be better. I don’t know what I was thinking, just giving him extra, because now I feel so uncomfortable; I’m not used to interacting with my customers for real, I’m just here, to make and deliver their food and charge them for it afterwards. I’m not here to give them extras they didn’t ask for, just because I’ve practically have been stalking him for an entire year.
Even when I’m not the owner for that long, which still is unacceptable behavior for a bakery owner.
“It wouldn’t be like stealing,” I tell him, trying to sound more sure of myself than I actually am. “See it as a thank you.” I glance at Tachibana, trying my best to make sure the message reaches him. “For being my most loyal customer.”