For a few months, I stayed with my aunt's friend in Midtown, back when she could still afford to live there. Now it's filled with condos, and they're all a trillion dollars a month. But, in those days, she owned the house, and also a coffeehouse a few blocks away.

I was too broke to pay rent, so every morning saw me behind the counter. This was the arrangement. I'd just broken up with my ex -- a doctor with legible handwriting, an ungenerous top -- because he was moving to Austin and I wasn't down to do that.

Margo lived with her young son, Walter. Sometimes he went by Walt, the name his father called him, but his father was gone. My aunt had introduced the two of them to me as her Good Friends, which meant they'd either met at church or been involved in some kind of beauty-shop gossip entanglement -- but, when I was standing in their doorway, effectively unhoused, none of that had mattered to me.

Walter looked up at me with absolute disdain. Margo only shrugged.

I really appreciate your hospitality, I said, nearly bowing.

Don't call it that, Margo said. It's a favor. Your aunt will pay it back.

This made my aunt's eye twitch. But it wasn't a lie. I'd been living with her for a while, and, ever since she'd walked in on me sucking off a hookup in her living room, every word she lobbed my way felt loaded. So she smiled, pushing me forward a bit.

You'll hardly even notice him, she said, rubbing my back. He's no trouble.

Better not be, Margo said.

Walter kept staring at my face. I scrunched it a bit to see if he'd laugh or something, but he did not.

I'd been a barista before, but Margo still wanted me to make her a coffee. She sat with her legs crossed at the bar, tapping at her phone. It wasn't a big space: there were three sofas, a few tables, and some drapes lining the windows. The walls were painted the lightest shade of gray. Walter sketched Bluey at a table by the entrance.

Is this a test? I asked.

Only if achievement-based endeavors give you validation, Margo said.

And if I fail?

Then I'll be the first person to ever change her mind.

Margo's face didn't tell me whether or not this was bullshit. After I served her a cup of pour-over, she swirled it in the mug and kind of wiggled her nose.

Margo wasn't a short lady. Braided hair ran down her back. I watched as she did exactly the same things I had: weighing the beans, grinding them, reboiling the water, saturating the grounds over a scale. But, when I took a sip from the mug she passed me, a chill started in my spine, reaching the ends of my ears.

He probably hears worse on TikTok every day, I said.

I paid attention, Margo said. You can make sandwiches, right? That's where you'll start. No coffee for now.

Then she turned away, maneuvering around the tiny kitchen space, assembling a small mug of hot chocolate. She walked it out to Walter, who hardly looked up from his sketchbook, nodding exactly once.

I wasn't completely useless. And it wasn't like Margo had time to train me: her business hours went from early morning to late at night. She opened the coffeehouse, and I stuck around to close it.

First, she caught the office workers headed downtown (white), and also the day workers, stumbling through the door looking half asleep (Latinx). Once that rush slowed, Margo served tourists (white), folks working from home (white), random influencers juggling filming setups (mostly white), care-worker types on break from the medical plazas (Asian, white, Latinx), and the packs of (white) undergrads passing through. For these clients, she wore a practiced face. Spoke a few decibels louder than usual, gliding by me as I washed dishes, assembled salads, wiped butter on toast. Sometimes Margo passed me an order for a latte or a tea, glancing my way as I assembled the drink but not really caring too much.

I learned, quickly enough, that these were the people who kept her in business. The morning rush. All of them received paper cups. A wide smile. Warm sendoffs.

And then Margo had her regulars. The ones who lingered. Local musicians toting trumpet and guitar cases. Churchwomen pushing sixty and seventy, who always arrived in trios, wearing bright sweaters and flowing dresses and towering hats. Teens ambling along in jerseys and tank tops, looking distracted until Margo asked about their sisters and their grades. Nurses from Montrose's sex clinic looking overworked, whose faces softened when they stepped inside, just perceptibly. Unhoused folks, who counted change on Margo's counter while she shook her head at them, pushing back the coins and swearing that they really didn't have to.

These customers were invariably Black. For them, Margo didn't even let me look at the coffee beans -- in fact, she didn't use the same beans at all. She'd assign each drink a mug, in muted pastels. And she'd walk the coffee out to each of them, lingering for a moment, until their bodies relaxed in her shadow, then she'd set a hand on their shoulders and finally turn back to the register.

A few weeks in, names still weren't sticking with me. Most customers couldn't care less. But Margo's regulars couldn't stand it.

Marge, Danny (cellist, fifty-four years old) said, who the fuck is this kid?

New guy, Margo said. He won't last long.

Margo, Lenorah (preacher, sixty-two) said, where'd you find this young man?

Craigslist, Margo said. Don't worry too much about him.

Yo, AJ (student, nineteen) said, I thought you said you weren't hiring?

Whatever, nigga, AJ said. I don't need a receipt, volunteer.

I wasn't exactly volunteering. Most of my work was in exchange for rent. In the evenings, I stayed behind while Margo walked Walter home. I wiped and brushed and swept until the shop looked reasonably clean. Trekking back to her place, I'd lope over the sidewalk while pickups raced by and men slumped under street lights, scanning me briefly before nodding off into their phones. By the time I made it to Margo's house -- a tiny blue one-story at the end of a cul-de-sac, tucked between a nail salon and a Vietnamese restaurant -- she'd put the kid to bed and got ready for the night. I slept in the spare room, under a poster of Harry Belafonte. Obviously, this wasn't ideal.