The Last Regular

The Last Regular

Herr Novak liked his Melange with the foam exactly the height of his index finger, and he liked it at 18:30 on a Friday, not a minute before the bells of St. Ulrich finished their damp tolling into the street. For thirty-two years I poured it for him. I knew the way his coat hung — always slightly damp at the shoulders, as if he carried a private drizzle with him — and the precise, obsessive way he adjusted his glasses before unfolding the Presse.