The Small Café

Every Friday, Noah stopped at a small café near the bus station. He ordered a coffee, took the table beside the plants and opened the black notebook in which he drew the buildings he passed on his way to work. The café was quiet enough for him to concentrate, and over the months the barista had learnt his order, and his habits, without ever mentioning either.

One afternoon he was running short of time. He paid, pulled on his coat and left with his bag over one shoulder, already thinking about the bus. At the stop, an idea for his latest drawing suddenly came to him, and he reached into the bag for the notebook. His hand met only the lining. The notebook was not there, and a sinking feeling began to build.

He searched every pocket twice before hurrying back to the café. The barista recognised him as soon as he came through the door. “Did you forget your notebook?” she asked. She checked his usual table, but there was nothing on it, and the other customers looked up with sympathetic interest, as people do when somebody loses something precious.

Noah was close to despair. He had been working on some of those drawings for months, and no copies existed. Then the barista moved the chair away from the wall and noticed a black corner wedged between the cushion and the wooden frame. The notebook had slipped down as he stood up. His blue pen was still inside, resting on the page of the unfinished drawing, as if waiting for him.

Noah thanked her several times and leafed through the pages to be sure that nothing had been damaged. Before leaving again, he put the notebook in the main compartment of his bag and fastened the zip. He missed the first bus, but the next one came only ten minutes later. This time he took a seat and held the notebook on his lap, safe and visible, for the whole journey.