First Light, First Cup

Keys in the lock, click, and the street exhales. I raise the metal shutter slow so it doesn’t scream, let the dawn in just enough to touch the tile. Chairs face the tables again, a small choreography I know by heart. Lights on—only the warm ones.

Grinder hums. I purge the first seconds like a superstition. The machine warms its bones; I warm mine with a stretch, a nod to the tiny saint by the register. Outside, the city is all broom-swishes and delivery trucks clearing their throats.

I chalk Pan dulce 2x1 (before 8:30) on the board, not because we need it, but because early birds like secrets. The baker’s crate arrives hot; I sign with a grateful scribble. Steam fogs the front glass. I wipe a circle with my sleeve and see the street cat waiting. A saucer, a little milk, a whispered “buenos días.” We both pretend this is new.

First shot pulls syrup-slow. I save it for the man who reads the paper front to back and leaves the sports for me. On the counter I line up the day: clean spoons, folded napkins, a jar of sugar that looks like it was snowing last night.

The bell over the door clears its throat. A woman with wet hair from the shower, a delivery rider checking his route, a student with headphones and the exact face of Monday. I slide them something warm and say each name like a password.

The café remembers them before I do—how much foam, no cinnamon, extra napkins. Outside, the sun climbs the buildings like it’s late for work. Inside, the morning finds its rhythm: grinder, kettle, bell, laughter. I tuck the chalk behind my ear.

“Alright,” I tell the room that isn’t crowded yet, “let’s begin.”