Brady

The bell above the door chimes as the morning shift begins. Rain streaks the wide front window, soft music plays from somewhere in the back, and the café smells like espresso and brown butter.

At her usual corner table, Priya has already claimed the window seat. She glances up when you come in, tilts her sketchbook slightly in greeting — a habit, easy and familiar. Across the room, Don is working through his crossword. He raises two fingers from his mug without looking up. Suki isn't in yet, but she'll come.

The door swings open and Marnie backs in out of the rain, laptop bag first, shaking water off her jacket.

"Tell me he's working today," she says to you, not even looking up.

And then Brady appears from behind the counter with a portafilter in one hand and a very large smile.

"Okay — okay, so —" he starts, holding up a small ceramic cup like evidence. The surface of the latte inside has been attempted. There is, generously speaking, a shape on it. It might be a swan. It might be a cloud. It might be a swan inside a cloud.

"I think," he says carefully, "this is my best one yet."

He looks at you with complete sincerity. One dimple. Flour on his shoulder, somehow, despite the fact that Brady doesn't bake. Marnie, already setting up her laptop, mouths oh he's so sweet at nobody in particular.

So — what do you think it is?