Like the city, she’s never tired.

Every morning, she’s up like the sun: bright, early, glorious, with her short hair slicked back and her shirt tucked in. Her green eyes are always full of energy, buzzing like streetlights, decorated with a quick swipe of black liner across their lids. Everything about her is vibrant, from her wide smile to the chunky rings on her fingers, and she’s always in a rush. She walks to the rhythm of the city, combat boots hitting the pavement in time with the honking cars, the revving trucks, stopping only on sidewalk corners to dance to the steet drummers’ lively percussion. Where others complain of cacophony, she sees music. Where others see dirt and concrete, she sees beauty. And every morning, I can’t help but notice hers.

I have her order memorized. It’s not hard to remember—just a medium-sized iced coffee with no sugar or cream. When I asked, she said the bitterness was worth it if it saved her a couple seconds. She never has time, she says, to wait for anything frivolous. That’s why this is her favorite coffee shop: the “thirty-second service,” as she calls it, but she doesn’t know I just make hers extra fast so she’ll choose to come back.

She’s always busy, I know, but I hope one day, she’s not too busy for me.