Wednesday, 11:24 AM. That dead zone between the morning rush and lunch when cafés become liminal spaces populated by the untethered—freelancers, students, the unemployable, and me.

The espresso machine at Iconoclast had fallen silent, replaced after the 9-to-5 crowd disappeared with the clatter and hiss of mid-morning clean-up. Layered over it was that beautiful ambient hum of a half-empty coffee space: keyboard clicks, quiet conversations, the occasional clunk of ceramic against wood.

I was nursing a second cortado – to me, the perfect balance of assertiveness and accommodation. It was then they arrived, separately but within minutes of each other. Two open seats at a communal table, two laptops, two very different coffee orders. A studied nonchalance. I know you’re there but I’m not here, sort of thing.

She arrived first: early thirties, a sandy bob with a pencil above her ear, glasses she scuttled on to the table. Her’s was a pour-over—single-origin Ethiopian, I believe I heard—and specified that she’d wait the full four minutes for proper extraction. When the barista suggested a batch brew to save time, she declined with a small smile. “I’m not in a hurry today.”

Pour-over people are patient. Methodical. And she was evidently here for the long haul. They understand that good things require time and attention. They’re typically serial monogamists who send birthday cards three days early to ensure on-time arrival.

He arrived mid-brew: tall, sleeve tattoos disappearing under a cuffed black button-down, AirPods in one ear. He ordered a cold brew with a splash of cream. No ice. Room temperature.

Cold brew people are the contrapositive of pour-over people. They plan ahead (cold brew takes 12+ hours to make), but they want their gratification immediate when the moment comes. They appear low-maintenance while actually being incredibly specific about their needs. They’ll ghost you for weeks then text at 1 AM as if no time has passed.

The seating dance began. The café was maybe 60% full—empty enough to avoid sharing a table if you really wanted privacy, crowded enough to justify communal seating if you were feeling social. He paused, scanning the room, then pointed to the empty chair opposite her.

“Mind if I sit?” The die was cast.

She glanced up, did the split-second assessment all women perform for safety, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

I shifted in my seat, angling my laptop screen to catch their reflection while pretending to work on an invoice. This is the coffee anthropologist’s version of setting up a blind.

For fifteen minutes, they worked in silence. She was writing something that required frequent pauses to stare thoughtfully into middle distance. He was coding, fingers moving with the rapid confidence of someone who either knows exactly what they’re doing or has absolutely no idea and is hoping for the best.

When her cup emptied, she went for a refill. This time: a macchiato. Interesting pivot. Pour-over to macchiato suggests someone who starts relationships with careful consideration but, once committed, dives in intensely. The transition from slow-drip to espresso-based signals a willingness to accelerate.

He watched her walk to the counter. When she returned, he removed his AirPod.

“Switching it up?” he asked, gesturing to her new drink.

“The pour-over is for thinking. The macchiato is for doing,” she replied, coyly stoney-faced.

“What are you working on that requires both?”

She paused momentarily, considering the intrusion, and just like that, the seal was broken. Her screenplay. His app development. Her recent move from Toronto. His third-generation Edmonton roots. His recommendation for the best bookstore. Her recommendation for the best ramen. The conversation flowed with the natural rhythm of two people finding resonance.

When he got up for his second drink—an Americano with an extra shot—I resisted cheering out loud. Cold brew to Americano is the coffee equivalent of “I came here to be alone but I’ve changed my mind.” It’s pivoting from a drink designed for solitary efficiency to one meant to be savoured while engaging with the world. The extra shot? That’s showing off a bit, letting her know he has stamina.

Their laptops gradually closed. The chairs inched closer. The universal signs of mutual attraction unfolded like a barista’s practiced pour pattern: the laughing at jokes that weren’t that funny, the unnecessary touching of arms to emphasize points, the mirroring of postures. It was almost painfully perfect.

By drink three, they’d reached what I call the coffee convergence, sharing a pour-over for two, a special offering from the café featuring a limited Burundian bean that the barista described as having “notes of blackberry, chocolate, and honeysuckle.” Sharing coffee is intimate—it’s agreeing to the same experience, the same flavour profile, the same moment.

“I never do pour-overs for my afternoon coffee,” he admitted.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever shared my coffee with a stranger,” she countered.

“Are we still strangers?” He held her gaze across the rim of his mug.

“I suspect so. Stranger by the minute.” A shared laugh.

The screenplay and the app were forgotten, the digital workspace abandoned for the analog pleasure of human connection. Outside, rain began to fall, the kind of soft spring shower that makes inside spaces feel conspiratorial and cozy. Any inclination to dash off is given pause.

Still, time waits for no one and they left together three hours after arriving, sharing an umbrella he produced from his messenger bag. Of course the cold brew guy came prepared for weather contingencies—forward planning with immediate utility, his specialty.

As they walked out, I heard him ask for her number. She laughed and said, “I think we’re past the number stage. Let’s just get dinner tonight.”

Direct. Decisive. Pure macchiato energy.

I noted their coffee progression in my journal: Pour-over → Macchiato → Shared Pour-over for her; Cold Brew → Americano → Shared Pour-over for him. A perfect convergence arc, starting from their established comfort zones, accelerating through curiosity, and arriving at shared experience.

In my professional opinion as Edmonton’s self-appointed coffee-romance correspondent, they’ll last at least through summer. By fall, they’ll either be choosing beans for their home grinder together or she’ll be back to solo pour-overs working on that same screenplay that refuses to write itself – the one that transformed into a coffee shop breakup.

But for today, in the gentle limbo of a rainy Wednesday noon, I witnessed two different coffee philosophies find common ground. It’s enough to make a cynical observer like me order something sweet and foamy, if only for an afternoon.