They remembered my cup. I learned their busy hour.

The first time the barista remembered my order, I went home in an absurdly good mood. I had been buying the same drink for weeks, so this was not evidence of an extraordinary bond. Nevertheless, someone had noticed that I existed before nine.

I had started going to the cafe after moving a few streets away. At first I stood near the door and took my drink home. Later I found a seat I liked. I learned that the front window was warm in the afternoon and that the little table by the till was not a good place to spread out a newspaper.

On quiet days we exchanged a few sentences. I learned the barista's name was Noor. She learned that I had finally unpacked the box I kept describing. I sometimes left knowing about a new cake. This was a satisfying amount of local news.

One morning I kept talking.

I was halfway through a story about a parcel when I noticed that Noor had turned to the espresso machine twice and back to me twice. Behind me, several people were waiting. She was being polite, and I was making that require work.

I stopped. "I'll let you get on. See you next time." She smiled and handed over the drink. I did not apologise for three more minutes. This was an improvement I could make immediately.

After that, I paid more attention to the room. If the queue reached the door, I ordered and moved along. If someone wanted my small table, I did not occupy it for another hour over an empty cup. I could enjoy a familiar place without treating it as a service that had promised to keep me company.

Familiar was enough.

Some days a different person served me and asked what I wanted. I told them. I did not explain that Noor usually knew. It was information they had quite reasonably requested.

When the cafe was quiet, I still chatted. Once, another regular asked about the book on my table. We disagreed about the ending and then about whether we were allowed to discuss it near someone who had just started reading it. We moved the conversation outside.

I like going there. I like the cup waiting on the counter, the small wave, the occasional conversation that has time to become a longer one. Last week Noor asked whether another parcel had arrived. I said yes, and that I would tell her when the milk stopped shouting.