The Barista's Brew
"At sixty, Gwendolyn thought her coffee shop days were over. Then a handsome regular ordered something complicated, and her life got interesting again."
Aroma of Oakland has been my life for fifteen years.
Built it from nothing after my divorce. Now it's the neighborhood's living room—students, artists, everyone welcome.
I'm Gwendolyn. Sixty. Still behind the counter because I like it there.
"I'd like a cortado with oat milk, light foam, Ethiopian single-origin if you have it."
I look up. The man is around my age, well-dressed, clearly not a regular.
"You know your coffee."
"I know what I like." His smile is warm. "What do you recommend?"
He becomes a regular.
Every morning, same time, increasingly complicated orders that I suspect he makes up just to watch me work.
"Lavender latte with a hint of vanilla?"
"You're testing me."
"I'm appreciating you." He leans on the counter. "The way you know every regular. The way you make this place feel like home."
His name is Marcus.
Retired consultant, recently moved from New York. His daughter lives in Oakland with his grandchildren.
"Why this shop?" I ask during a slow morning.
"Serendipity. I was walking, saw the sign, thought I'd try a new place." He sips his cortado. "Best decision I've made in California."
The conversations get longer.
He stays after ordering, helps me break down at night, brings pastries from the new bakery down the street.
"You're very helpful for a customer," I note.
"Maybe I want to be more than a customer."
"Marcus—"
"Coffee first." He smiles. "I'm a patient man."
The kiss happens during closing.
Just us, chairs on tables, the espresso machine cooling down.
"Is this why you've been coming every day?" I ask.
"This is exactly why." His hands cup my face. "Worth every complicated order."
My apartment above the shop is cozy.
He fills it the moment he enters—not with size, but presence.
"You built this," he says, looking around. "All of it."
"Fifteen years of work."
"Fifteen years of courage." He moves toward me. "That's beautiful."
He undresses me in my bedroom.
Takes his time, appreciating each reveal.
"I've imagined this," he admits.
"While ordering coffee?"
"While watching you make it." He kisses my neck. "The concentration. The care. I wondered what that would feel like directed at me."
His mouth explores me thoroughly.
Down my body, learning every curve, every soft edge.
"Here?" he asks at my center.
"Please."
He's skilled.
Attentive in ways that suggest practice, but also genuine care. When I come, he doesn't stop until I'm begging.
"Now," I gasp.
"Not yet." He climbs up my body. "One more."
When he finally enters me, I'm floating.
"Worth the wait," he groans.
"Stop talking and move."
He moves.
Afterward, in my bed, he holds me.
"Breakfast?" he asks.
"I open at six—"
"I'll help." He pulls me closer. "I make excellent pour-overs."
"Is this a job application?"
"This is a relationship application." He kisses my forehead. "If you're accepting."
Marcus becomes part of Aroma.
Not officially employed, but always there—making drinks when it's busy, charming customers, being indispensable.
"You don't have to do this," I tell him.
"I want to be where you are." He shrugs. "Everything else is just coffee."
The wedding is in the shop.
After hours, just close friends. The ceremony happens at my favorite table.
"To the woman who brewed my heart," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who ordered his way into my life," I counter.
We kiss while the espresso machine hisses approval.
Some relationships start with conversation.
Some start with coffee.
And some baristas find that the best brews are the ones shared with someone who appreciates the craft.
Every morning.
For life.
One cup at a time.