The counter-filing landed on a morning I was teaching Cole to pull a shot.
Not at forty-two stories. At Treeline. Before the shop opened, with the station still waking up around us and the espresso machine warm and the counter between us holding the weight of everything it had held since the first cortado — distance, negotiation, a cortado slid across wood, fingers brushing on ceramic, a hand kissed on knuckles, a kiss in the dark.
"Pressure," I said. My hand over his on the portafilter. "You're pushing too hard. The shot doesn't need force. It needs consistency. The machine does the work. You just hold the position."
"I hold positions professionally."
"You hold positions in boardrooms. This is espresso. The stakes are higher."
