Little Miss Remembers-Names — The Barista, the Neighbor's Dog

Lyrics

Seven-fifteen on a Tuesday.
The Daily Grind.
A line of coats, damp from the morning.
A currency of nods and muttered orders.
Latte.
Americano.
Black.
A transaction in the key of steam.

And here she comes. Little Miss Remembers-Names.
Nothing special in her step.
Just her chipped ceramic mug held in one hand.
She doesn’t look at her phone.
She watches the hands behind the counter.
The blur of a hundred other mornings.
The same ritual.
The great, anonymous shuffle.

But the shuffle stops for a second.
Just a breath.
She gets to the front, slides the mug across the steel.
A small smile.
"Morning, Tomás. How's Roxie?"
Just that.
"How was the vet?"

And Tomás, who has been a function all morning...
A pair of hands attached to a portafilter...
He straightens up.
The armor of his apron seems to soften.
He's not just the coffee guy.
He's the guy with the scruffy terrier mix tied to the lamppost.
The one who worries about her limp.
Someone kept a receipt for his life.

The shuffle stops for a second.
Just a breath.
She gets to the front, slides the mug across the steel.
A small smile.
"Morning, Tomás. How's Roxie?"
Just that.
"How was the vet?"

There are only so many names you can hold.
A hundred and fifty, maybe, if you’re lucky.
She spends hers carefully.
On the doorman whose daughter is studying art history.
On the librarian who's reading Proust again.
On the dog who waits by the lamppost.
A small investment.
A quiet rebellion against the blur.

He fills the chipped mug.
Passes it back.
"She's fine," he says. "She's good."
And for a moment, in the steam and the noise,
the whole place is just two people.
And a dog named Roxie.