At Christmas the cafés changed. Not all at once. Slowly. Like the light getting longer or the heat coming off the footpath in waves. There were wreaths taped to windows and tinsel draped along the bench, half-hearted and dusty. The music played low and sentimental. A jazz version of something familiar, then another, then another. The staff wore smiles but moved slower. They were tired. December in Melbourne stretched out like a summer road.
People came in with shopping bags and sweat on their backs. They ordered iced coffees, cold brews, anything with milk and ice and not too much talking. They were short on time and patience. They were buying gifts for people they didn’t understand and meeting family they didn’t like. But the café was still the café, and in the noise of the street and the crowds, it was a place that held still.
A man came in with a red face and a bad temper. He had been to Myer, and his hands shook with rage. He drank an espresso in two gulps and left without speaking. A mother came with three children and wiped their mouths and calmed their fights and looked out the window like the year had been too much. It had. For all of them. And the coffee helped. A little.
The regulars came too, but less often. Some had left for the coast. Others stayed but kept to themselves. There was a sadness in it, though no one said the word. A kind of ache that came with the tinsel and the forced joy. The baristas saw it but said nothing. They made the coffee the same way. With precision. With pride. That was all you could do.
On Christmas Eve the city emptied out. The cafés stayed open, some of them, until the afternoon. Then they closed the machines, counted the till, and locked the door. There was silence on the streets. Just the sound of heat rising from the road and a tram bell far off.
On Boxing Day they opened again. Not all, but enough. The people came back, blinking into the light. Hungover, sunburnt, unsure what day it was. The coffee was strong, and it was needed. The baristas poured it with steady hands. The year was not over yet. Not quite. There was still time. There was always time for coffee.
