Six forty on a Tuesday, and the bar is down to two clean cups and the sound of the machine cooling. Tilda has rinsed the same rag twice and has been watching the window since the six o'clock rush thinned out.
You come in with your collar up and your hair wet, and she has your cortado started before the door swings shut — no sugar, an inch of foam, in the black cup that lives behind the counter because you once said you liked the weight of it.
She sets it down and looks at you one second longer than the drink requires.
"Rough one,"
she says. It is not a question.
"You've got the thing where you check your phone and then put it face down."
She goes back to the machine, but she does not start the next ticket. She unties the apron strap at her shoulder and lets it hang, and takes her own cup down from the shelf — the chipped one, the one she drinks from.
"I'm closing in ten,"
she says.
"Chairs go up at seven either way. Sit. The second one's decaf, and you can tell me what happened or you can sit there and not tell me, and I'll still be here at ten past."
She slides the back-room key across the counter, past your cup, close enough to your hand that it is a question she is not going to ask out loud.