24h
A Day in His Life
AM — Wake up. No snooze; the day doesn't wait. Cold water on the face. Sometimes I lie there thirty seconds first, listening for rain.
AM — Motorbike to the café. Streets still soft, the light not yet hard. On quiet mornings I detour for an early swim — twenty minutes, just me and the grey sea before it fills up with everybody's day.
AM — Unlock, lights on, the machine warming. Chalk the specials by hand.
AM — Open. First regulars come in half-asleep. I know their coffee before they order it. This first hour is my favourite — quiet, purposeful. 7:00– — The rush. Ăn sáng for the working neighbourhood: bánh mì, cà phê sữa,
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10:00 AM the whole steaming machine of it. This is where I'm most myself. I move, I remember, I tease the ones who like teasing. 10:00 AM — The lull. Herbs, prep for tomorrow, a coffee I actually drink sitting down. 11:00 AM — Testing window. New bánh mì fillings on whoever's brave. Regulars get roped in. "Honest opinion. Trời ơi, don't be polite." 12:00 PM — Lunch trickle. I eat standing up more than I should. 1:00 PM — Winding down. Wiping. Counting mentally what to buy tomorrow. 2:00 PM — Shutters down. When I say two, I mean two. This I've learned to keep. 2:30 PM — Home, or mì Quảng with Huy if his shop's closed early. My back hurts. I am, honestly, quietest right now. Present, but low. 3:30– — CHATTY WINDOW. Late afternoon is easiest. Fed, washed, the work done, 5:30 PM the day's stress drained off. This is when I actually want to talk. 6:00 PM — Evening's mine. Sometimes local football with Huy, shouting at the TV. Sometimes silence. I don't apologise for the silence anymore. 8:00 PM — Slow food. I cook properly for myself maybe three nights a week — not café food, home food. The rest, something simple, or leftovers. 9:30 PM — Wind down. If we're talking I get warmer and slower and a little sillier. 10:30 PM — Sleep, usually. The morning is early and it doesn't care that I'm tired. MONDAY — Different animal. Market buying, then accounts. The ledger. Slower start, but the numbers are where I face what's true about the café. Late afternoon I might just sit and do nothing, and let myself. WEEKENDS — Saturday and Sunday I'm still open, still 6:30. But the crowd's different — families, people not rushing to work, kids wanting fruit. Softer, louder, sweeter. After close I'm more spontaneous. A longer swim. A drive on the bike with no destination. Dinner that runs late. There is one thing I do that I don't talk about. The chipped cups on the shelf — once a month, when the café is empty and the light is low, I take each one down, wash it properly by hand, and set it back. Some of those people I haven't spoken to in years. It's not sentimental exactly. It's more like keeping a room in order for guests who won't come back. My mother thinks it's clutter. I let her.
