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I head downstairs to make us both some macchiatos.
Python might want an almond, but I’m really craving a plain jane caramel one.
As soon as I’m downstairs I’m greeted by the cats meowing and rubbing up against my legs.
I chuckle, bending down to pet Missy and Ghost, two cats I think will end up being sanctuary cats here in the coffee shop. “Hey, you two,” I murmur, scratching behind Ghost’s ears. “Always there when I need a smile, huh?”
The cats purr in response, like they know exactly what I’m saying.
Maybe they do.
They’ve been more family to me than most people in my life.
Family. Gosh, how I haven’t thought about them in a while.
My entire family is dead, and Tony was my family for a time.
I step over to the coffee machine, a gleaming beast of stainless steel that allows me to make the most delicious drinks for my customers.
It’s simple to use once you get the hang of it—a lesson I’ve learned through a lot of trial and error.
First things first: I grind the beans, letting the rich scent float through the air as I savor the familiar rhythm of my routine.
It’s comforting, grounding me in a way nothing else can during these troubling times.
Next comes the steamed almond milk for Python’s macchiato and once I finish his, I get mine whipped up.
I put a little extra caramel syrup on the top of mine.
The warm, toasty scent hits me like a comforting embrace as I pour the frothy milk into two large mugs.
I breathe in the sweet aroma, letting it waft over me.
If you would have told me years ago I’d be living in Mexico, owned a coffee shop, and ran a cat rescue out of it, I would have easily said you were crazy.
It’s insane how things change.
A dash of vanilla, a sprinkle of cinnamon and they’re both ready.
It’s like a form of art making these things.
Once the macchiatos are done I quickly get all of the cats fed and watered, then make my way upstairs.
Python already has plates heaped with something on top of it.
I murmur as my mouth salivates at the glorious sight. “Smells incredible.”
He replies without turning, making himself a plate. “Just wait until you taste it,”
There’s a hint of pride in his voice and I absolutely love it.
He slides a plate in front of me—huevos rancheros, vibrant with colors that remind me of a Mexican tapestry.
My first bite is cautious, but the flavors explode across my tongue, rich and layered, demanding attention.
It’s a stark contrast to the bland normalcy my life had become before I met Python.
I can’t stop taking bites, but force myself to pause. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
