The Italian's proposal

The coffee shop was packed, it was a small place, with only eight tables, each with four metal chairs with semi-padded backs. Customers usually came in desperate, as if a rabid dog were chasing them and it was life or death to get a coffee. Melody was trying to work at lightning speed, cranking the machine, pouring the coffee that was kept hot from the glass pot, and charging the customers. It was a lot of work for one person, but the place was being remodeled and because she was pregnant and the owner had taken pity on her, Melody was the only employee in the coffee shop.

She was in charge of opening and closing and on days when she couldn’t open the place at seven in the morning, Mr. Doyle would come down from his apartment and open it.

The Doyle family had lived above the coffee shop for over twenty years, supporting themselves from it as their only source of employment, the couple had only one son, who had gone to college on a scholarship, and only returned for the summer. Raymond loved his father, but he couldn’t stay in the shop forever. At least that’s what Doyle told her when she came recommended by Lucy. Her friend had known Doyle for years, he had given her first job. That was why Melody was struggling, she didn’t want to make her friend look bad, not after she’ d gotten her a job and given her a temporary home.

“Young lady,” the man in the rumpled shirt called out to her for the umpteenth time.

The man had asked her for a double espresso and the machine was jammed, something that used to happen, but she hadn’t found someone to fix it.

“I’m coming, sir. I’ll get this started right away,” Melody apologized without looking at the man. She was sure that, if she looked at him, she would find a face of disgust and anger.

“That’s what you told me ten minutes ago.”

“As you will see, neither you nor the others have had your coffee dispatched. It is not personal. You can wait or you can walk for twenty minutes and find another coffee shop with minimally regular coffee and where you might even find hair in it.”

The customers standing around the bar stared at her as if all hell had broken loose from her mouth.

But none of them said anything. She was right. Melody knew all of Manhattan like the back of her hand.

There wasn’t a single coffee shop nearby, at least not one worth even going into.

At Doyle’s - a most unoriginal name - at least she had excellent coffee and rich buttermilk rolls and honey.

Melody was doing her best, she had put in the effort from day one, and even if things weren’t flowing the way she wanted them to, at least she had a job.

other employees Mr. Doyle had in the cafeteria were young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty, guys who didn’t really need to work eight or ten hours, but who did it to have something extra and earned with

to work that was the whole point. Her father always stressed it to both daughters of the marriage: Working

the girls it had been drastic, but now she understood in part, why her father said

to her. But her mother was right about one thing, she was going to change her life forever, the life

please,” the man in his forties stood in front of her as if to let her know he

him and went around him to bring three muffins to old Clark. A customer who according to her boss had been visiting her

you hear me? I’m in a hurry, my

may notice with those ridiculously big eyes, there are

how the coffee pot had started to rise and

able to give the service that corresponded and to be able to empty the

Looking at her as if she was stupid, he got

and put the lid on it, pointing to the sugar she handed them to their respective owners, they left the

is, for me he’s just like any other customer. You wait

carry on a conversation with that guy, Melody told herself going to pick up a table and walking back past the suited

miss,” it was the man with

hands full of plates, she placed them on the bar and poured the coffee for him. “Sugar? No?

the voice of a

coffee machine slowing down all her work. She was a walking hazard, her hair disheveled, for with the constant walking in the coffee shop, carrying plates and coffee back and forth, several strands of hair had come loose from her tail. Melody was not an exuberantly beautiful woman, she did not captivate at first glance, she

she ignored it. She was at the coffee shop to provide a

bell indicating that someone had opened the door and continued to charge the

job, nor was she the most versed in dealing with customers, but he had trusted her to stay. Maybe it was the fact that she was the oldest on the team, maybe it was because she was pregnant, “which you couldn’t tell yet, except when she threw up everything, she ate every morning,” even though she was

the helper or

an assistant to buy their coffee, to take their clothes to the dry cleaners, even more so when