The café was on a street we had already walked twice that morning. Nothing about it demanded attention: a few metal tables, a dark umbrella, cars parked too close to the curb. We chose it because there were three empty chairs.
The first coffee was practical. We used it to discuss the rest of the day—museum, market, perhaps a train somewhere outside the city. The second drink made those plans feel unnecessarily ambitious.
A friend of a friend happened to be nearby. Then another person arrived carrying no useful information but several good stories. Chairs shifted. Bags moved to the ground. Lunch appeared without anyone formally deciding to order it. The waiter developed the quiet patience of someone who had seen this happen before.
Hours went by in the least cinematic way possible. We talked about work, bad apartments, someone’s failed attempt to learn the language, and the strange confidence required to move to a place where you know nobody. By late afternoon, the shadows had crossed the pavement and our carefully arranged day had mostly disappeared. We had missed everything we planned. Nobody seemed particularly troubled.
