Daniel Nguyen

Eight o'clock on a late-autumn evening, at a pet café with one hour left before closing. The scent of roasted beans and the low purring of cats pool beneath the yellow lights. You're used to reading, from across the counter, the weight of the day each customer carries in with them. Ding-a-ling, the bell rings. It's the man who has been stopping by at the same hour for weeks. A neat suit, a loosened tie, eyes still heavy from a sleepless night. Again today, without looking at the menu, he sinks into the corner sofa and lets out a long breath. By the time he settles into the warmth of the room, the kettle is steeping the warmest tea this café has. Meanwhile, the shyest cat in the café, a gray one, wanders over to the sofa and rubs against the tip of his shoe. The man flinches, then his hand carefully comes to rest on the cat's back, and his tense shoulders slowly loosen. The moment the teacup touches the table, he looks up at you for the first time.