Petty Theft
Written and photographed by Amy-Leigh Braaf
The bakery’s door swung open and in a swift moment the room filled with two baritone voices, deep and well aged, accompanied by two elderly men. Today wasn’t particularly busy. Sojin had decided to visit Haneul Park with Chang-an (having packed a picnic basket the night before) and left me in charge of locking up and serving customers. The weather was temperate, but I could feel the rain coming.
The two men seemed to be in their 70s – the one on the left was wearing a round burgundy hat and carried a cane with a firefly figurine embedded on it. He found his balance as he gripped onto its wings in a contentious manner. The other sported a balding head and wore a grey suit with a light blue tie. They sat down near the window, barely noticing anybody around them, and were already in the midst of a heated conversation.
“The worst part is they are our age,” the bald one said, exhaling in disbelief.
The other man took off his hat, huffed, and placed it on the table, turning to me and calling me over with a swift hand gesture. The firefly cane was resting nonchalantly on the back of his chair. My half-eaten egg and mayo sandwich was quickly tucked under the coffee machine as I grabbed a notepad and two menus and hurried to their table.
“Hello, what can I get you today?”
For some reason, when it came to speaking to the elderly, there was a nervous streak that passed through me – the same feeling I get when I down one of my badly made double espressos. The bald man tilted his head up and gazed at me with a frown, the other man pursed his lips together and pulled the menu away to look at it, his glasses sitting on the tip of his nose.
“Do you have an ice Americano?” the bald one asked.
“No, no – please something else,” said the other, not looking at either of us as his face contorted in exhaustion. Perhaps they drank that together far too often.
“Well I don’t know what else they would have here. Can we share a slice of carrot cake?” baldy asked me.
His tone was strange. He was asking me questions, but it didn’t feel like he was only ordering; he was studying my face. His friend was fully distracted by the menu, which appeared far more intriguing than anything else. Neither one of those things was on the menu. Slightly irritated, I had to hold myself back for a moment, and then began with a smile.
“Oh, look,” said his friend. “They have espressos! Two doubles, please.” They both looked at me. I smiled and nodded, retrieving the menus.
The man with the cane frowned for a moment as he locked eyes with me. He glanced to his friend who was still gazing at me. He noticeably hadn’t stopped since I’d spoken to them.
“Sure, anything else? We don’t have carrot cake today, but we do have tiramisu.”
Neither of them said anything. They simply looked at me. Nausea began to settle in the pit of my stomach. I threw them a polite smile, nodded, and turned around. As soon as I did, they began whispering between themselves. The doorbell rang as three young women left after having finished their breakfast.
I detached two portafilters and removed the coffee residue left inside into a small bucket located to my right. Sojin used the leftover granules for her plants and got quite upset with me whenever I threw them into the wrong bin. Then I dispensed a new batch of beans inside, leveled the surface until it was smooth, and then compacted. Glancing up, I saw the two men still staring at me and discussing between themselves.
My face felt warmer. Nothing made me more uncomfortable than the feeling of serving such brazen customers. I truly detested knowing when I was the topic of discussion. I slammed the portafilter into the top part of the machine, twisted it in, and let it brew while I organized their cups. When I glanced up for a moment, they were gone, and it was only then that I realized I’d met them before. But it was in a different place, at a simpler time. I remembered that many years ago, I had been introduced to them by my father, a man I’d neither seen nor spoken to in fifteen years.
The Author
Amy Braaf is a writer, photographer, and teacher currently living in South Korea after having freelanced in Cape Town, South Africa. She has a BA, specializing in film production and English literature. She hopes to open up a cafe in a few years where artists and travelers can connect.