I step into a stone cave, see tables with candles and plants, wicker chairs.
Woven discs hang from the stone, bamboo stalks line the far wall, a large paper umbrella hangs in a corner, a wooden fan, stones tiered from a shelf to the ceiling, with candles and plants on each step.
I order a cafe americano, ask about the caramel syrup in the bottle behind me at the self-serve table.
Yes, help yourself, but then she brings a small serving to my table anyway with my coffee.
She also brings a flask of water and a glass.
The coffee is served in a cone.
I cannot just set it anywhere; I must return the cup into its partner, the cube, if I do not wish it to tip over.
Two women, fashionably dressed with large-stoned rings, take the table next to me, though the cafe is virtually empty.
Initially one woman intended to grab a table behind me, but pulled up short as she walked past me when she realized it was a mirror.
Indeed, I am sitting in the corner table.
One woman shares her pastry with her friend, who opens a paper bag and pulls out a book, recently purchased, about fashion.
Based on the title, the book is written in English, but the women are not conversing in English.
Contemporary versions of 80s and 90s songs play over the speaker.
I tap my foot to the beat, pour the caramel syrup into my coffee, and hum while I put the cone to my lips.
