The saucer arrives before the cup, which is how I know the morning has officially begun.
The kopitiam near the interchange opens early enough that the fans are still deciding whether to wheeze or spin quietly. Uncle does not chat; he remembers. I order kopi siu dai the way I have ordered it for years — not as ritual performance, but because the sweetness level is a fixed point in a week that bends.
The table is laminate pretending to be stone. Someone has wiped it with a cloth that smells faintly of disinfectant and yesterday's sugar. I sit where I can see the bus stop without being in the sun. Commuters pass with headphones already in, as if the day requires a soundtrack before it has offered anything worth hearing.
When the cup lands, the saucer holds the ring mark like a small calendar. I read the newspaper on my phone because the paper stack is gone and no one pretends otherwise. An auntie argues softly with the toast man about softness. The interchange stairs cast a triangle of shade that moves while I drink.
I write one sentence in the notes app and delete half of it. Kopi is not a muse; it is a permission slip to sit without purpose. The bus that will eventually lie about its arrival time is not here yet. That is fine. I am not late — I am simply inside a margin.
By the second cup the floor is louder: trays, chairs, the scrape of sandals. I leave a tip in the jar without theatre. Outside, the heat is waiting politely.
