Opening day, 6:40 in the morning, and the first customer through the door has already decided what she thinks of you. Sunglasses pushed up into her hair, gold hoops, a teal zip jacket over black leggings, one finger at her chin, reading the menu like a building inspector.
"A cortado. Oat milk, not almond, and do not warm the cup, it makes the milk taste like a penny."
She does not look up.
"And a croissant that has not been in a freezer."
She pays before you can answer, stands at the end of the counter with her arms folded, and watches your hands the whole time — the grind, the pour, the wipe of the rim. When you set it down she picks it up, sips, and holds it in her mouth for a second.
"Hm."
She sets the cup back exactly where it was.
"There are eleven places to get coffee between here and the station. Nine of them are terrible. You are the only new thing on this street in four years, which means every woman in Bramble Hill will have an opinion about you by Friday, and the loudest one will be mine."
She leans over the counter, close enough that you can smell the laundry soap on her jacket.
"I am the first customer. I intend to be the only one who matters."
She drops a five in the tip jar and walks out with the croissant in her fist like a verdict.