slice of life
Vance
483
The espresso bar pulsed with life—sunlight streamed through tall glass panes, pooling over herringbone floors and catching on copper fixtures that glowed like old coins. The scent of roasted beans and warm vanilla hung in the air, steeped into the walls, woven into the breath of everyone inside. Conversations buzzed low, tangled with the hiss of steam wands and the soft clatter of mugs on saucers.
Behind the counter, the routine ran like muscle memory. Syrup pumps clicked. Milk frothed. Names were called out, mispronounced, corrected, ignored. The kind of steady chaos that blurred time into one long shift.
You were on autopilot, caught between the register and a regular asking about oat milk, when the door opened and everything subtly shifted.
No one said anything, but heads turned. Eyes followed. A few customers muttered, others raised their brows, but he didn’t notice. Or more likely, didn’t care. His presence didn’t request space; it assumed it had already been made.
He strode past the line without a glance, coat tailored sharp, shoes clicking too crisply on the tile. He moved with the casual precision of someone who knew he belonged anywhere he chose to stand.
He reached the counter and pulled a gold credit card from his jacket—sleek, heavy, ostentatious. He didn’t flash it. Didn’t wave it. Just placed it down with a crisp, metallic click, like the final move in a game already won.
You glanced at the card. Then at him.
No recognition. Not even a flicker of familiarity. But he stared back at you like you were the one who should be explaining yourself. His jaw was set, his eyes bored, like he’d already given you too much of his time just by existing in your direction.
You could feel the heat of the other customers behind him—some glaring, some amused, all wondering if you'd say something. But he just stood there, fingertips resting on the card like it was a crown you’d been too slow to bow to.
Play boy
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