Coffee

The disabled toilet was cramped but functional, and Ellen made the most of it. The space smelled faintly of disinfectant, with an underlying mustiness that clung to the damp air. The walls were lined with chipped white tiles, their grout darkened with age, and the metal fixtures had dulled from years of use. A buzzing fluorescent light flickered above her, casting harsh shadows that made the room feel smaller.

She stood at the small sink, letting cold water run over her hands as she reached for the wall-mounted soap dispenser. The lemon-scented soap was thin and watery, barely lathering, but it did the job. She scrubbed her arms, neck, and face, splashing water over her skin and wiping herself down with rough paper towels. The storm had left her feeling grimy, the dampness of the night still clinging to her clothes, but this impromptu wash was enough to feel human again.

Her damp hair was another story. She positioned herself awkwardly beneath the roaring hand dryer, tilting her head to let the hot air whip her hair into a chaotic mess. The heat pulled at her scalp, tangling the strands as they dried in uneven clumps. She groaned softly, realising she’d left her brush in one of her other bags. With no better option, she used her fingers to work through the worst of the knots before quickly braiding her hair into a messy French plait. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

Ellen pulled on clean clothes from her rucksack . . . a soft cardigan and jeans that felt comforting against her skin. She rolled up her wet clothes into a tight bundle, stuffing them into the bottom of her bag. Looking at her reflection in the small, scratched mirror above the sink, she tried a smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was a start.

A fresh start.

Maybe today would be . . . better?

She squared her shoulders, unlocked the door, and stepped back into the world.

The bar was strange in the daylight.

Ellen had only ever seen it when it was alive with noise and movement . . . drunken laughter, clinking glasses, music vibrating against the walls. But now, under the weak afternoon light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, it felt different.

The wooden floors bore the scars of a thousand footsteps, varnish worn thin in places, the boards groaning faintly with every movement. The long counter was marked with old scratches and stains, initials carved into its surface by restless patrons over the years. A row of mismatched barstools lined it . . . some with cracked vinyl seats, others with worn leather cushions sagging in the middle. A few fruit machines sat unused in the corner, their screens flashing. The jukebox, its selection stuck in another decade, stood silent for now.

Ellen trailed her fingers along the bar as she passed, feeling the rough texture of years’ worth of spilled drinks and restless hands. The place felt hollow without the crowds, an empty stage waiting for its nightly players.

Seth moved with quiet precision behind the bar, his every motion deliberate and smooth, as if each action carried some greater purpose. The low hum of the dishwasher could be heard under the counter, the clink of glasses punctuating the stillness. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, faint traces of spilled beer, and something warm . . . coffee, maybe, though it carried an edge of bitterness.

When he glanced up and noticed her, his expression shifted ever so slightly . . . just enough to suggest he’d been waiting for her all along. Without a word, he reached across the counter and slid a steaming mug toward her, his hand resting lightly on the rim for a moment before retreating.

“Ellen,” he said, his voice steady and unhurried. “I made you coffee.”

Ellen hesitated before taking a seat on one of the barstools. She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into her cold fingers.

“Your bags are in the boiler room,” Seth added, his tone as neutral as ever. “They were pretty wet. I’ve left them to dry.”

Ellen had spent enough time in that boiler room to picture it instantly . . . the large industrial boiler humming in the dim light, the exposed pipes clanking now and then as the system heated up. She could imagine her bags now, resting on the concrete floor in front of that giant rust-coloured beast, slowly drying in the thick, stale heat.

“That’s kind of you,” she replied softly, caught off guard by his thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”

Seth inclined his head slightly, as if brushing off the compliment, and resumed wiping down the counter.

Ellen raised the mug to her lips, inhaling the coffee’s aroma.

But something was off.

It smelled faintly burnt, with an edge of staleness that was hard to miss. She took a cautious sip and winced internally. The bitterness was sharp, the taste unmistakably unpleasant. Still, she tried to hide her reaction, her face a mask of politeness as she forced another sip.

Seth, however, was watching her closely, his gaze piercing yet peaceful. “Something wrong with the coffee?” he asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory, just curious, as if her opinion genuinely mattered to him.

Ellen faltered, a tight smile forming as she shook her head. “No, no. It’s fine,” she insisted, though her voice wavered slightly.

Seth raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. “Be honest,” he said simply, leaning forward slightly, his quiet insistence impossible to ignore.

Ellen laughed softly, finally letting her guard down. “Okay,” she admitted, placing the mug back on the counter. “It’s bad. Sorry.”

Seth’s lips traced into a faint smile, a flicker of amusement breaking his otherwise composed demeanour. “That bad, huh?”

Ellen swirled the coffee dramatically, like a wine connoisseur before taking another small sip, her face twisted in exaggerated concentration. “No, actually… it’s not bad.” She paused for effect. “It’s… awful.”

Seth laughed, a low, warm sound that seemed to echo in the quiet space. He reached for a bar towel, pressing it briefly against his face as if to smother his amusement. Ellen found herself laughing too, the moment unexpectedly lightening her mood.

Once the laughter faded, she set the mug down again, tapping its rim thoughtfully. “Maybe there’s something wrong with the machine?” she suggested. “It tastes stale, like… like the portafilter hasn’t been cleaned or something.”

Seth’s gaze drifted to the gleaming coffee machine, his expression contemplative. “Portafilter,” he repeated slowly, testing the unfamiliar word. His focus returned to Ellen, and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. “I’ll be honest… I’ve never made coffee before.”

Ellen blinked, taken aback. “Wait, really? Never?”

Seth’s composed demeanour didn’t falter. “Never,” he said with a faint smile, as though he found the admission vaguely amusing. “I thought I’d give it a try.”

She studied him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh again or be impressed by his candour. “Well,” she said finally, her lips curving into a smile, “top marks for effort, at least.”

Seth’s grin widened, a fleeting but genuine moment of warmth. “Thank you.”

“Seth, I could teach you to use the coffee machine,” Ellen began. “It’s the least I could do, for, um, helping me earlier…” She hesitated, a painful memory bubbling to the surface, “in the alley.”

He considered something for a moment, his lips parting slightly before he spoke. “Yes, I think I would enjoy that,” he said, his voice laced with an almost childlike enthusiasm.

For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Ellen felt strangely at ease.

The moment was short-lived.

A sharp voice cut through the ambient hum of the coffee machine, crisp and authoritative. The television mounted above the bar flickered, drawing their attention.

“..a patient has escaped from Sunny Meadow Mental Hospital during the night,” the reporter announced, her tone grim and urgent. “He is considered extremely dangerous.

Do not approach him.

Call the police immediately if you see him.

Here’s a photo..” An image in the corner of the screen appeared showcasing a bearded man, his eyes were dark rimmed and piecing, almost looking straight out of the television and at you, through you. There was no emotion behind his eye. like they had seen something so loud that it had tumbled the walls inside his head. “..Police have provided us with a sketch of what they believe the patient would look like without a beard..”

Before the image could fully materialise, the screen blinked.

Then, suddenly . . . 

Music.

A vibrant pop beat filled the air, cheerful and completely at odds with the moment before.

Ellen frowned. Twisting in her stool, she caught sight of Seth standing behind the bar, remote in hand, his thumb resting on the button.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

Seth set the remote down with an air of nonchalance, as though he had merely changed the channel out of boredom. “Enough negativity for one day,” he murmured. “Let’s put on something better. Music makes everything better, doesn’t it?”

His cheeks lifted in a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Something about his composure was too perfect. Too smooth. As if the news report hadn’t fazed him at all.

A chill curled down Ellen’s spine.

She turned back toward the screen, but the escaped patient’s description was already fading from her memory. The image, whatever it was, had been erased, replaced by flashing lights and saccharine lyrics.

“Right,” she murmured finally, more to herself than to Seth. “Music.”

Seth hummed in agreement, his focus returning to the bar. He moved like clockwork . . . stacking glasses, wiping the counter, every motion fluid and unhurried. A man entirely in control.

“So,” she started, crossing her arms. “Why are you working here? You don’t have any bar experience. Jack usually hires people who can hold their own in a place like this.”

Seth didn’t pause in his movements. He reached for another glass, drying the rim with an almost reverent touch.

“It seemed like the right place to be,” he said simply.

Ellen narrowed her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

A pause. He placed the glass down and met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “No, it isn’t.”

She scoffed, half-expecting amusement in his tone, but he was as placid as ever.

“What were you doing before this?”

Seth’s eyes flickered, just briefly, like a candle guttering in the wind. But instead of answering, he simply stared into space, as though recalling an answer, considering her, but something troubled him. The silence stretched long enough that Ellen felt the need to fill it herself.

“You don’t have to tell me your life story,” she muttered, shifting awkwardly. “I was just curious. You don’t seem like a bartender.”

Still, nothing. Just that same, steady gaze, as if he were waiting for something.

Ellen sighed. “Fine. How about something simpler?” She leaned against the counter, drumming her fingers against the wood. “Why did you help me in the alley? Not many people I know would dare piss off the police.. but, you did.”

Seth finally reacted . . . his lips parted slightly, his gaze sharpening in a way she couldn’t quite decipher. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, in that same soothe, measured voice, he said, “I didn’t like what I saw.”

“And what exactly did you see?”

Seth’s gaze didn’t waver. “I see more than most people, and I saw enough. You don’t deserve to be subject to that kind of… treatment.”

Something about his certainty sent a ripple through her. Her throat felt tight, so she forced herself to lighten the moment.

“And how do you think I should be treated?” she asked, her voice teasing, but quieter than she intended.

Not for the first time since meeting him, Seth again hesitated. His eyes drifted, unfocused, as if he were searching for the answer in the dim light of the bar. When he spoke again, his voice carried the same soft finality she had heard in the alley.

“With care. With patience. A man should look after a woman… not because she is weak, but because she deserves to be.” His eyes found hers again, serene but certain. “You deserve to be.”

Ellen’s breath hitched before she let out a quiet, uneasy laugh. “And are you that guy, Seth? The one who’s going to look after me?”

Seth didn’t blink. “Maybe.. I could be.”

Ellen let out a shy chuckle, this conversation was getting silly, who was she kidding, she was flirting like she was in the playground and she had no idea who this guy was, and he was strange, or was the word mysterious?

Seth tilted his head, is smile unwavering in curiosity, “What’s funny about that?” he said innocently, almost offended, “I think I could look after a woman, especially if she looked after me. Isn’t that the way it should be?”

The moment stretched between them, something unspoken settling into the quiet.

The door to the bar creaked open, allowing a gust of cool air to sweep in before a tall, thin woman strode inside.

She carried herself as if she were gracing a runway rather than stepping into a dimly lit, near-empty bar. Her heels clacked sharply against the floor, each step measured, deliberate. The scent of heavy floral perfume followed in her wake . . . cloying, artificial, clashing with the lingering aroma of espresso and wood polish.

She was dressed in a tight leopard-print blouse that accentuated every curve, her lips painted a loud crimson, her eyes rimmed with thick eyeliner. Lashes, impossibly long, fanned dramatically with every slow blink.

Her gaze locked onto Seth the moment she entered.

Her smile stretched wide, a calculated flash of white teeth.

“Good morning, honey!” she called, her voice shrill, saccharine, dripping with artificial warmth.

Seth looked up from the counter he had been steadily wiping down. His expression remained unruffled, his movements unhurried. He met her energy with an almost eerie appease, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Sorry I’m late!” she continued, flicking her wrists in an exaggerated motion. She rolled her eyes, as though sharing some inside joke with the empty room. “I’m just having one of those mornings, you know what I mean?”

A forced laugh followed, loud and hollow, bouncing off the walls.

“Good morning, Tracy,” he greeted smoothly. “No, I don’t know what you mean, but I’d very much like to. Tell me, what are those mornings like?”

Tracy halted mid-stride.

The confidence in her expression faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, blinking rapidly before letting out another boisterous laugh. She reached out, patting Seth’s shoulder as if he’d just told the funniest joke she’d ever heard.

“Oh, you are funny!” she practically cooed. “Never change, sweetheart.”

Seth’s smile remained gentle, almost childlike in its purity. “Thank you,” he replied smoothly. “I’ll do my best. But truly, I’d like to hear about these mornings. Are they particularly challenging?”

“Huh?” Tracy faltered again, momentarily thrown. She waved him off. “Oh, never mind about that. Anyway, you managed to open up okay?”

Seth nodded. “Yes, thank you. I opened up, took out the trash, emptied the dishwasher, and now Ellen is teaching me how to use the coffee machine.” His delivery was flawless, as though listing his accomplishments was the most natural thing in the world.

Tracy’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Wait, Ellen?”

On cue, Ellen turned slightly on her barstool, facing Tracy with an expression composed but watchful.

“Good morning, Tracy.”

Tracy’s painted lips parted in surprise. “Sorry, I thought you were a customer. What’re you doing here?”

The friendliness in her voice wavered, momentarily slipping into something closer to suspicion. Her gaze flicked between Seth and Ellen, but she quickly masked the falter with an exaggerated smile. “Oh! Well, isn’t this a surprise? You’re not supposed to be here until tonight, sweetie.”

Ellen’s fingers curled slightly around the warm mug in front of her. The heat grounded her, kept her still.

“I know. I just needed to kill some time.” She lied.

“Why can’t you do that at home? Oh, sweetie, have you and.. what’s his name… Tim had an argument? Talk to me sweetie.”

“His name’s Tod.”

Tracy’s gaze darted back to Seth, searching for an explanation.

He remained as placid as ever, leaning slightly against the counter. “She’s locked out of her place,” he supplied casually. “Waiting for someone to change the locks. Thought she’d spend the time teaching me a thing or two about coffee.”

“Teaching you about coffee, huh?”

Tracy’s smile was still in place, but there was a forced tightness around it. “Well, I hope you’re not expecting to get paid for this impromptu little day shift, Ellen. I mean, you’re already on for tonight. You’ll be dead on your feet by then!”

Ellen hesitated.

The words stung more than they should have, mostly because they were true. She needed every penny she could scrape together, even if it meant pulling a double shift with barely any sleep. Her chest tightened at the thought, exhaustion pressing at the edges of her resolve.

Seth, as always, seemed to sense it.

“Oh, no worries, Tracy,” he interjected lightly before Ellen could respond. “She’s Just lending a hand while she’s here.”

Tracy’s smile grew taut, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“Well, isn’t that generous of her,” she murmured. “Good thing, too. Day shifts are dead as a doornail. Nobody ever comes in until the evening.”

Ellen swallowed the bitter truth. She glanced around at the empty bar, willing herself not to dwell on it. The tips from a dead shift wouldn’t amount to much. But it was something. If she kept herself busy, the time would pass. She just had to push through.

Seth’s steady voice cut through her thoughts. “Dead or not, it’s a good time to learn,” he said, his gaze lingering on her with something quiet, knowing. “Right, Ellen?”

She nodded, drawing from his unwavering reliance. “Exactly. Seth’s going to be a pro by the time we’re done.”

“Sure he is, Sweetie,” Tracy replied with another brittle laugh. She gave Seth one last playful slap on the shoulder before clicking her way toward the back office, her heavy perfume lingering long after she disappeared.

“Thank you,” she said. “The story you told Tracy about the locksmith… ”

Seth interrupted, “I heard you in the alley.” he said, “talking about your boyfriend…”

“Oh,” replied Ellen. So that’s how he knew. So much for avoiding her work colleagues knowing that she was homeless, however, in a comforting way she got the impression that Seth wasn’t the kind of person who would judge, nor would he tell anyone. It was their little secret.

Ellen exhaled slowly, trying to re-centre herself, rolling the tension from her shoulders. The bar was quiet again, save for the hum of the espresso machine.

Seth, as usual, stood perfectly still, his focus entirely on her. “You said you would teach me.”

Ellen blinked, then followed his gaze to the coffee machine. “Right.”

She stepped down from her stool, walked around to a section of the counter top which opened like a flap and stepped behind the bar. She motioned him closer. He obeyed without hesitation.

He was watching intently as she gestured to the espresso machine’s dials. “It’s all about timing,” she explained, pressing a button to grind the beans. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, rich and earthy. “You have to get the ratio right… too much, and it’s bitter. Too little, and it’s weak.”

Seth nodded, but his focus wasn’t on the machine. “You enjoy this.” His words more of a statement than a question.

Ellen paused, fingers resting on the portafilter. “What?”

“Making coffee. You enjoy it.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, then hesitantly, as though embarrassed to voice her acknowledgement. “Yeah, I do.”

Seth studied her, waiting. It wasn’t the polite kind of waiting . . . it was the kind that required an answer.

Ellen glanced down, tamping the grounds with more force than necessary. “I guess… sometimes I feel like I don’t have control over things. But this?” She nodded toward the machine. “I do. I follow the steps, and it turns out right. There’s no guesswork. No surprises.”

Seth considered this, as if she’d just told him something profound. “That must be comforting.”

“It is.” She handed him the portafilter. “Here, you try.”

He took it with an unexpected gentleness, watching her every move as she guided his hands to lock it into place. His fingers brushed against hers . . . brief, barely there, but enough to send a flicker of something unfamiliar through her.

She cleared her throat. “Now press the button.”

Seth obeyed. The machine whirred to life, dark liquid streaming into the cup below. He watched, fascinated, as if witnessing something entirely new.

“I like this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Ellen raised an amused brow. “What, making coffee?”

“No.” He met her eyes. “Watching you make coffee.”

Something warm twisted in her chest, but her words had abandoned her, leaving her short of a reply.

“You’ve had a rough couple of days,” he said quietly, his voice low but deliberate. “Pushing yourself like this… no rest, no home to fall back on . . . it can’t be easy.”

Ellen’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how easily he’d read her.

“I’ll manage,” she replied firmly, masking her exhaustion.

Seth studied her for a moment, his steady gaze seeming to peel back her layers.

“I have a spare room in the apartment I’m renting,” he said finally. “The landlord’s looking for another lodger. I can put your name forward if you’re interested.”

The offer caught Ellen off guard. “That’s… kind of you,” she said cautiously. But as much as the idea of stable lodging appealed to her, the memory of Seth changing the channel during the news report lingered uneasily in her mind.

“I’ll think about it,” she added, her tone careful.

Seth smiled faintly, not pressing the matter. “Okay,” he said with his usual peacefulness.”

Ellen stared at him, unsure of whether to feel reassured or wary. For now, she decided she’d focus on surviving the next two shifts.

She could deal with the rest later.