Mix Coffee on a Monday Morning

All weekend long, I didn't set a single foot outside the penthouse.

The reason was simple: I had nothing to wear. The pale beige dress had already done its duty on Friday, which left the black leather miniskirt and the sky-blue pleated skirt. Either one would have been far too high a difficulty level for a forty-three-year-old uncle like me to wear out in public.

So for two days I lay sprawled on the living room sofa in silk pajamas, dozing off while watching the Han River, then waking to watch it again. I fumbled through meals with delivery food. For the first weekend of someone holding two trillion won, it was modest — but it was also the first weekend in thirteen years I'd spent without an alarm. That alone was luxury enough.

And then, Monday morning.

My eyes opened. The clock read six thirty.

I'd deleted my alarm, but my body still remembered. Fair enough, really — it had been waking at this hour every day for thirteen years. I lay there staring at the ceiling for a long while.

"I don't have to go to work."

Saying it out loud made my heart pound, strangely enough. Not going to work on a Monday morning. For thirteen years, that had existed only in my dreams.

And there was one thing I'd wanted to try since long ago.

Sipping coffee at my leisure on a Monday morning, watching the commuters go by.

Every time I stood with my forehead pressed against the subway window, my eyes drifted to the window seats of the cafes by the station exit. Watching those people sip their coffee, unhurried, I'd think: who are those people, anyway? Someday, I want to sit there too. Just once.

"Alright. Today's the day."

The problem, as always, was clothes.

After standing in front of the walk-in closet agonizing for ages, I pulled out the sky-blue pleated skirt and a blouse. The leather miniskirt didn't even make the shortlist.

I put them on and faced the mirror. The skirt ended a handspan above my knee. A handspan — and for legs that had spent decades in trousers, it was a very long handspan indeed.

"Nope. Not happening."

While tidying up Friday's outfit, I retrieved the oversized jacket hanging in a corner of the closet. Draped over the blouse, its sleeves swallowed my hands whole, and the shoulder line sagged well past my own. In exchange, it hid everything down to my hips.

The woman in the mirror was folding the sleeves twice over, oversized jacket and all. It should have looked absurd — and yet, absurdly, it worked. She looked like something straight out of a fashion magazine.

"It really is all in the face."

That was twice I'd said it now.

The cafe was a five-minute walk from the penthouse. Directly across the street was the subway station exit, and behind it a row of office buildings stretched into the distance. From a window seat, you'd have every commuter in plain view. It was the spot I'd picked out over the weekend, watching from the living room window.

The moment I pushed through the door, the nutty aroma of fresh coffee beans washed over me. It was still early, and the place was empty. Behind the counter, a woman was wiping down cups.

Hair neatly tied back, black apron. A face somewhere around ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thirty. Her expression barely moved — not cold, exactly, but still and serene. A name tag was pinned to her chest.

"Welcome."

Her voice was as calm as her expression.

"Oh — hello."

I looked up at the menu board. Americano, caffè latte, flat white, cold brew. Names I knew, tastes I didn't. In thirteen years, the coffee I'd drunk came in exactly two varieties: the mix coffee from the office pantry, and the mix coffee poured for me by a client's CEO.

"Um, excuse me."

I started to speak, then hesitated. Was it even okay to ask for something like this in a cafe like this?

"You don't have mix coffee, do you?"

The manager's hand stopped mid-wipe.

She looked at me once — the oversized jacket, the sky-blue pleated skirt, and then my face, in that order. Then, for the briefest moment, the corner of her mouth lifted before settling back down.

"It's not on the menu."

"Ah, right. Then an Americano, please."

"One moment."

The manager opened a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a single packet of mix coffee.

A familiar one. The very same mix coffee I'd torn open every morning for thirteen years.

"I keep it on hand because I drink it sometimes, myself. If this would do?"

"It would do! I mean — yes, please. It's perfect."

My voice had gotten loud without my noticing. The manager's mouth curved up again. This time, it lingered a little longer.

"How much water should I use?"

"A little below the line inside the paper cup. That's how you get it strong."

The moment I said it, I winced inwardly. I'd answered far too automatically.

The manager studied me for a beat, then poured the water into a paper cup. Just slightly below the line I'd described.

"Is this about right?"

"Yes. Perfect."

The manager handed over the mix coffee.

"Mix coffee belongs in a paper cup, after all."

That one sentence made me like her.

I took the window seat and cradled the paper cup in both hands. It was warm.

Seven forty. People began pouring out of the station exit.

Someone tying their tie while walking. Someone yawning into their phone. Someone sprinting with a briefcase in one hand and a to-go cup in the other. There was even a young man in a stiff, brand-new suit — a new hire, by the look of him. All of them, in the same direction, at the same pace, being sucked into the buildings.

I took a sip. Sweet, with a faint bitter edge. The exact taste of those thirteen years.

And yet something was off. It wasn't the feeling I'd imagined.

When I used to gaze at this seat through the subway window, I'd assumed that sitting here would feel triumphant. You all go to work — I don't. That was the flavor I'd expected.

Now that I was actually sitting here, no such feeling came.

At the mouth of the station exit, a man was struggling to tear open the plastic wrapping of a triangle kimbap. Fifty or so? Thinning hair, a bit of a belly, a crooked tie. In the end he gnawed the wrapper open with his teeth, bit the kimbap half in one mouthful, and bolted toward the buildings.

I watched his retreating back for a long time, paper cup in hand.

Would he get chewed out by his team lead or department head today, too? Would someone steal his credit, too? Would he drag himself home tonight and feel too drained to do anything at all?

"Hang in there."

I murmured it under my breath. There was no way he could hear. I wanted to say it anyway.

For thirteen years, I had been that man. If someone had said those words to me back then, I think it might have hurt a little less.

"Do you enjoy watching people head to work?"

I turned my head. The manager was wiping down the table beside me. I had no idea when she'd come over.

"It's not so much enjoyment, really."

I looked back out the window.

"It's more that I think, they're all working so hard. It's Monday morning, after all. Resting a little over the weekend and then walking back into that building — that's the hardest part of all, I think."

The words were out before I could stop them. Another wince. Not the sort of thing a twenty-one-year-old should be saying.

The manager set down her cloth and tilted her head.

The look in her eyes as she regarded me had changed from a moment ago.

Something doesn't add up here, her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠expression said.

"You look very young."

After a measured pause, the manager went on.

"But you talk like someone who's spent years in the working world."

Khk.

The mix coffee caught in my throat. I set the paper cup down, coughing.

"N-no, not at all. I've just heard a lot from my uncle."

"Your uncle."

"Yes. He worked at a company a long time. Thirteen years, actually."

It wasn't a lie. The manager gave a small nod. Her face betrayed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nothing — whether she believed me or not, I couldn't tell.

"Let me get you a napkin."

She handed me a few. I took them, dabbed at my mouth, and smiled out of habit.

"Thank you."

The manager stopped — just for an instant. Then she said, quietly:

"You might want to be careful, smiling like that."

"I'm sorry?"

"Before you came in, just now. Someone standing at the crosswalk over there missed the light twice, because she was busy looking at you."

Not following, I glanced out the window. There was no one at the crosswalk.

"Me?"

"Yes. You."

Leaving it at that, the manager returned to the counter. I tilted my head for a long, long moment.

Past eight, customers started trickling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into the cafe — office workers grabbing coffee to go. And yet, oddly, every one of them lingered by the counter after ordering. Even with their coffee in hand, they didn't leave. They'd steal a glance toward the window seat, check their watch, and jolt out of the door in a panic.

The new-hire young man from before came in too. He took his coffee and headed for the door, glanced over at the window — and walked his shoulder straight into the glass. I shot to my feet on reflex.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm fine! Totally fine!"

Scarlet-faced, he bowed at a perfect ninety degrees and sprinted out. Even by the standards of a thirteen-year veteran of the sales world, that was an exemplary angle.

"Kids these days have such nice manners," I murmured, sitting back down — and from the counter came the sound of the manager exhaling a small sigh.

By nine, the station exit had gone quiet. The sprinters had all vanished into the buildings. Outside the window only a few pigeons remained, and an old man sweeping the street.

The paper cup was empty.

I went up to the counter to pay.

"How much do I owe you?"

"It's not on the menu, so there's no price."

"Still."

"Then come again sometime. We'll call it even for that."

The manager opened the drawer to show me. Inside sat a small fistful of yellow sticks.

"I'll buy a supply just for customers like you."

I laughed. This time, the manager met my eyes without looking away. Then she added one thing, in her usual matter-of-fact tone.

"Also — you really do need to buy some clothes."

"I'm sorry?"

She looked my outfit up and down.

"It suits you, but the jacket's far too big."

I looked down at my sleeves. They swallowed my hands almost to the knuckles.

"Ah…"

"The design's lovely. The size is just a bit off, for you."

Without a word, I folded the cuff over once more.

"The department store across the street opens at ten thirty."

I stared down at the enormous sleeve. The homework I'd been putting off all weekend floated back to mind.

"I suppose I do need to go clothes shopping."

Stepping out of the cafe, I looked back. In small lettering on the sign hung the shop's name.

The manager's name was the shop's name.

Nine o'clock on a Monday morning. Instead of commuting, I'd drunk mix coffee, and I'd gained a regular spot. The Monday morning I'd dreamed of for thirteen years tasted far warmer than I'd ever imagined.

Seo-rin enjoying her mix coffee