Watching

I watched her hands.

They knew exactly where to go.

The portafilter into the group head,

a twist and it was secure.

Her fingers barely touched,

just enough pressure to lock it.

She didn't look at what she was doing.

That was the thing that got me—

the way her hands already knew

the distance, the angle, the exact

moment to turn the cup under

the stream.

Dark liquid pulled through.

Specific. Not too fast. Not waiting.

The pour was already decided

before the first drop fell.

She steamed milk in the pitcher

and I couldn't stop watching

her wrist. How it moved through

the water without hesitation,

how she didn't have to think

about the angle, the depth,

the exact second to pull the wand out.

Her hands moved like they'd made

this drink ten thousand times,

which they probably had,

which made it worse somehow,

the ease of it, the absence of doubt,

the way she knew.

I stood there with my mouth

ready to order and couldn't

remember what I wanted.

Couldn't look away from someone

who still knew how to do something.