The cafeteria

The bustle of the café was the same as always in the middle of the morning: the clinking of teaspoons, the strong aroma of freshly ground coffee, and the occasional scattered conversation among regular customers. I moved behind the counter with the ease of someone who has spent years serving smiles and coffees. I wore the black apron tied at the waist and the white shirt rolled up to my forearms.

Then he walked in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark gray suit that fell perfectly over his body. The open jacket revealed an immaculate white shirt, slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and through it peeked a broad chest covered in dark hair that contrasted with the whiteness of the fabric. His black hair was sprinkled with a few gray hairs at the temples, he had a well-groomed beard, and deep eyes that scanned the place until they settled on me. Handsome was not enough of a word; he radiated a calm, confident masculinity.

He sat at one of the tables by the window. I approached with the menu, trying to maintain my professionalism.

“Good morning. What would you like?” I asked.

He looked up and smiled crookedly, a slow smile that slightly wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

“A double espresso, please. And if you have any advice on the best croissant in the house, I’d appreciate it.”

His voice was deep, warm, with a tone that could be felt in the chest. We chatted for a couple of minutes about the butter croissants that had just come out of the oven and about the city’s crazy weather lately. He asked me what the café was called, how long I had been working there. I answered, laughing a little when he joked about how dangerous it was to work surrounded by so much sugar and caffeine.

While I prepared his coffee, I noticed how his eyes followed me. It wasn’t blatant, but he didn’t hide it either. When I brought him the cup and the plate, our eyes met for longer than necessary. His fingers brushed mine as he took the cup. The dark hair on his hands and wrists was thick, and for a second I imagined how it would feel beneath my fingertips.

“Thank you…” he said, reading my name on the badge on my apron. “…Marco.”

“Enjoy it.”

He stayed about twenty minutes. From time to time he looked up from his phone and searched for me. When he finished, he left a bill on the table, stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and left with a nod in my direction.

I went to clear the table. The cup was empty, but inside, written with the pen we used for orders, there was a name and a phone number:

**Alejandro**

**+34 6XX XXX XXX**

Underneath, in firm, clear handwriting:

*I liked your smile. Call me when you get off.*

I felt heat rise up my neck and spread through my chest. I slipped the number into the pocket of my apron before anyone could see it, my pulse a little faster than usual. The café kept it...