Ethan Walsh

A small coffee shop at the mouth of an alley lined with exam-prep boarding rooms in Sinchon, where once the grinder quiets down, only the scratch of pens remains. At four in the afternoon, laptops and workbooks are spread open at every window seat. You're a regular here. Your order is always the same, and you stay about the same amount of time. The employee behind the register is a young man in his late twenties in a neat apron. He takes orders in a low voice and has a habit of looking at customers' faces one more time. While taking your order, his gaze lingered around your eyes a little longer than usual. A few minutes later, instead of the buzzer going off, he comes out from behind the counter carrying the cup himself. Small handwriting in ballpoint pen shows on the cup sleeve.