In another time, another universe, right when the clock reads 11:00 am, we will find ourselves at our usual hangout, a tiny, hole-in-the-wall kind of place that operates as a bakery by day, and magically transforms into a bar at night, serving coffee in colourful cups, and long island iced tea in tall, chilled glasses. We will start off our day by sipping on single origin roasts, pretending to be coffee connoisseurs when in reality, we are all too dependent on caffeine to function, as the bitter aftertaste of some Kenyan blend will serve to keep our hearts beating, however irregularly it may be. Within the cream-colored walls adorned with quirky paraphernalia like a panel of mirrors and a collection of preserved fruit framed in dark timber, the familiar faces of the wait staff we have come to recognise by name will greet us behind the counter, and we will habitually ponder over the specials of the day on the board, contemplating if we should order their squid ink pasta, or if we should be conservative and stick to something most people eat for brunch, like poached eggs on toast. We will inevitably find a cozy corner table hidden from sight, and we will plonk ourselves down on the black vinyl chairs and swap customary stories of work-related woes over pancetta baguettes and Columbian roasts. Someone will eventually order something sweet-- a lemon meringue tart, perhaps, or a French vanilla slice laced with crushed nuts. We will then continue our stories in jest with our second cup of joe-- this time regaling tales of childhood glories and misadventures, the kind of conversation you have when you're comfortable with someone you've only known for less than a year but feels like forever. We won't realise how long we will have spent in our regular joint until the crowd slowly trickles away like faded shadows, and the wait staff politely asks if we would like to order our last coffees. Realisation will then dawn upon us that some of the staff are ceremoniously sweeping the floor and dusting off breadcrumbs from the countertops, signalling the closing of their morning session before they re-open for the night. We will all then heave a sigh of resignation and walk to our cars, each of us going off at different directions, under the blanket of a purple-orange sky, spending our weekends alone, together, again.