The alarm did not go off at 7:00. It went off at 6:47. Tom knew this because he had set it for 6:47 three months ago and had never changed it, and the reason he had chosen 6:47 was that he had looked at the clock one evening and thought 6:47 sounded like a time when something interesting might happen.

It never did. But 6:47 was good.

He reached for his phone. Three messages. One from his mother: "Have you eaten?" One from an unknown number: "Wrong number, sorry." One from a dating app: "You've matched with someone new!"

He did not open the dating app. He put the phone face down on the nightstand and got out of bed.

The flat was small. One bedroom, one kitchen, one bathroom that leaked when it rained. Above a bakery that had closed three months ago and had not reopened. The ceiling was off-white. It had been off-white when he moved in. It was still off-white. Tom had noticed this because he noticed things. He noticed things and then he did not do anything about them, which was his pattern.

He went to the kitchen. The kettle was half-full. He filled it. Waited. The kettle clicked off. He poured the water into a mug. He waited for the tea to steep. He held the mug with both hands. The tea was too hot. He blew on it. He took a sip. It was still too hot. He waited. He took another sip. It was perfect.

He sat at his small table and drank his tea and watched the light change on the wall. The light changed from grey to slightly less grey. This was the most interesting thing that happened in his flat on a Tuesday morning.

---

The café opened at 8:00. Tom arrived at 7:45, which was his habit. He liked the quiet before the rush. He liked arranging the cups. He liked the smell of coffee beans, which was the only thing in his life that smelled like something other than dust or damp or the faintly sour scent of the bakery below that had stopped baking but not stopped smelling like baked goods.

Jen handed him an apron. "Don't burn the milk today."

"I never burn the milk."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"I said it yesterday too."

A customer asked for oat milk. He did not have oat milk. "Try soy?" The customer left. Another came in. He made their coffee. Correctly.

A woman in her twenties sat alone, reading a book with a cracked spine. Tom watched her from behind the counter. He did not approach her. He had learned. He had been in love about ninety times. He did not count. The number had come up in a therapy session and he had not thought about it since.

The woman ordered a latte. He made it. He put the foam art on it wrong—a heart instead of nothing, because Jen said he should "put something in it" and a heart was something. The woman looked at the heart. She smiled. It was a small smile. It did not solve anything. It did not begin anything. It was a smile.

She came back the next day. And the next. She ordered a latte. Sometimes he put a heart on it. Sometimes he put nothing. She never complained.

---

The afternoon passed. He closed the café. He went home. He opened his laptop. He wrote three lines of a poem. Deleted them. Ordered takeout. Ate it standing up. Checked his phone: two messages. One from his mother: "Did you eat?" One from the dating app: "Your profile was viewed twelve times."

He put the phone down. He went to bed at 11:30.

This was his life. Not tragic. Not hopeful. Just there. Like the off-white ceiling. Like the kettle clicking off. Like the tea being too hot and then perfect.

---

It was not a climax. It was a Tuesday. But this Tuesday was slightly different.

The woman from yesterday came in. She ordered a coffee. He made it. She said, "You remembered. Soy, not oat."

He said, "You said soy."

She smiled.

Dave came in. "Rough week?"

Tom said, "Yeah."

Dave sat. Ordered tea. They talked about the tube delays. They talked about the bakery that might reopen. They talked about nothing. Tom left work early.

He walked through Victoria Park. The rain had stopped. The grass was wet. He sat on a bench. He took a cup of coffee from his bag. He drank it. It was lukewarm. He sat on the bench for twenty minutes. He did not think about love. He did not think about anything.

The cup was empty. He stood up. He walked home.

---

That night, Tom was in his flat. 10:15 PM. The poem he deleted was gone. The dating app notification was still on his phone screen, but he had turned the phone face down. He was making tea. Not coffee. Tea.

He put the kettle on. He waited. The kettle clicked off. He poured the water. He waited for the tea to steep. He held the mug with both hands. The tea was too hot. He blew on it. He took a sip. It was still too hot. He waited. He took another sip. It was perfect.

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