"Don't you work?" I ask, glancing at him. "It's the middle of the day."
He doesn't answer right away. Just sips from the mug he brought out with him—lemon tea.
"Do I look like I'm working?" he replies eventually, deadpan.
"Well, no," I mutter, wrapping my fingers around my own cup. It's gone lukewarm. "But you also don't look like someone who has this much free time."
Noah sets his mug down slowly. "Do you work?"
I stare into my coffee. The dark surface reflects a warped version of myself—eyes tired, collar slightly askew. "I'm … looking."
The air grows still between us. He doesn't speak, just watches me with a strange quiet intensity, as if there's something under my words that he wants to sift out.
What? Did he see through me that fast?
His eyes flick away for the first time, toward the glass door behind me. "That flyer," he says.
I glance over my shoulder. A weathered poster is pinned near the entrance, edges curling from exposure. It's handwritten, barely noticeable—"Part-time Barista Wanted. Inquire Within."
Huh. I turn back to him. "How did you know that was there?"
A half-smile tugs at his lips. "I have good eyes."
"Too good," I murmur, narrowing mine. "You work here?"
He shrugs, doesn't confirm or deny. Just leans back in his chair, eyes skimming the sky like it holds more answers than this conversation.
I tap my fingers against the mug. "Is this some kind of hobby for you? Inviting yourself to people's tables, recommending jobs, and acting like a cryptic life coach?"
"No. Just you."
I blink. "What?"
"You looked like you needed someone to sit down," he says, simply.
I don't have a comeback for that. The breeze picks up. I tug my coat tighter around me.
This cafe ... I never noticed it before—not that I usually hangout in this quiet neighborhood. Didn't even mean to come here. Yet somehow it feels like a pocket of the world untouched by the noise. A place that exists in between things—between headlines and grief, between what was and what's next. It's a bit far from my rented place, but not that far from mom's hospital.
This guy—Noah. He fits here like a fixture. But me? I'm still on the outside, shivering.
"You said you're looking for work," he says after a pause. "This place doesn't care about resumes or your last education ... or your past. Just consistency."
I glance back at the flyer.
Part of me wants to laugh. I've never worked a day in food service. I've attended business luncheons in Paris, hosted investor dinners in private lounges, helped sign million-dollar leases before I could legally drink. Now I'm considering taking orders for oat milk lattes? This world must be joking.
My arrogance won't even let me consider this, but it is what it is. I need to survive. I'm not in a position where I can complain and be picky about jobs. As long as it's a legal job with a good salary, I'll take it.
"Do you think I can do that?" I ask quietly.
Noah looks at me, long and hard. It's not the kind of look that measures competence. It's the kind that tries to read the parts you don't say.
"I think," he says slowly, "you can start anywhere. And this place isn't the worst place to start."
His words settle like dust. Soft. Inevitable. I wonder again—does he work here? Or is he just someone who lingers, someone with nowhere better to be? Or maybe, like me, he's trying to outrun something.
"You know, you're kind of weird," I murmur.
"I get that a lot."
We fall into silence again. Not uncomfortable—just suspended.
Inside the cafe, a bell rings as someone walks in. A middle-aged man in an apron greets them. I spot him briefly behind the counter, wiping his hands on a towel. The man looks over and nods toward Noah—casual, familiar.
So, maybe he does work here. But if he does, why was he out here sitting with me? Why not behind the counter, making drinks or restocking shelves?
Nothing about this makes sense. Then again, not much has since my life exploded two months ago.
Still, I find myself asking, "So what's your deal?"
Noah tilts his head slightly. "What do you mean?"
"You just … show up. Say cryptic things. Suggest jobs. Know stuff. And don't tell me anything. Are you a scammer?"
He laughs lightly. What's so funny about that? "You're an overly cautious person, aren't you? But it's a good thing. This world surely is a dangerous land to give away your trust that easy."
I look at his outfit and overall look. He doesn't seem bad. Has good sense in clothing—he knows what's good to wear, at least. No, I'm not checking him out. Just, uh, what, examining.
"I just want to help," he says slowly, "I know the feeling of looking for a job."
Something about that settles in me differently. He smiles. "You gonna take it?" he asks, voice light.
I glance back at the flyer. I don't know. But for once, maybe I don't have to decide right away.
Instead of answering, I sip my coffee again. "I'll think about it first. I would come here if I decided to take the job."
"Alright, you have the time."
Finally, something that has been waiting to be spoken comes out. "Have we met before?" I ask.
He looks at me again. No, not looking. Staring. I don't know what he's thinking. And then he smiles, softly. "I'm not sure about that. Maybe we just passed each other on the street," he answers, "anyway, I have a feeling that we will meet again."
"Is that your hope?" I tilt my head.
Noah lets out a laugh again, louder this time. "Yeah, let's say that it's my hope. How about that? Will you work here?"
I narrow my eyes. "Why do you insist me to work here?"
"I just want to meet you again."
That, that doesn't sound flirty—or like, nonsense. I'm not sure if he really meant it or not, but it makes me curious. He's not annoying—surprisingly—a good person to talk to, even.