A movement caught your eye, and you looked out the window to see a young boy at the counter, with long brown hair and a kind smile, handing the wrapped pastry to a woman with a small dog and heavy sunglasses that didn’t match the shape of her face.

Curiosity was a vice you’d never been able to tame. You looked both ways before crossing the street. You opened the door just as the woman was leaving.

The walls were a sort of creamy white with lights hanging overhead to help illuminate the room. There were tables scattered around and two comfortable, cushioned seats tucked away in the corner, along with a small coffee table. There were even two large couches in the middle of the café with a long table as well. To your surprise, they weren’t tacky and mixed in either. The chairs were wicker and pushed up against matching shades of the tables. The couches were a lovely stormy grey to keep the look minimal.

Realizing you were standing in the middle of the doorway, you moved around the seats to look at the authentic part of the cafe. Three chalkboards hung overhead with elegant calligraphy describing the drinks, pastries, and cakes they were willing to make. Behind the counter, there was a small kitchen and the usual machines made to make coffee drinks, pastries, cakes, etc.

The barista boy was also easy on the eyes. His black shirt accentuated his tones, and when he looked up, the brightest golden eyes you had ever seen greeted you. There was a shy smile on the boy’s face as he turned back to the old register that looked like it was straight out of the 1990s.

The boy’s eyes flickered to the register before he shrugged sheepishly, Our uncle always has, and it hasn’t failed him yet. He said, his voice almost drowned out by the white noise of conversation and spoons clinking against porcelain. What can I do for you?