He was just an academic speed demon—if he didn't show off, he'd probably keel over.

  And yet, the boss dy didn't retort or poke fun at him. Her composure was truly admirable.

  With ease, she led the conversation from Newton's Third Law to the formation of the universe, then from evolutionary theory to the artificially generated bck hole in the movie Event Horizon. They alternated between bursts of ughter and moments of deep contemption. When they got to the theory of cosmic expansion, they were practically waving their arms in excitement.

  All I could do was silently bow down in sheer admiration.

  But on the fourth day, the physics professor didn't come.

  Nor did he on the fifth.

  On the sixth day, the physics professor came back.

  But this time, instead of ordering the "Boss Lady's Uncertain Special Blend," he asked for an Arabian Mocha-Java.

  I figured he probably had an upset stomach the past few days, which was why he hadn't shown up—and now that he was back, he had to switch things up.

  The boss dy looked slightly disappointed that day. She sat at the bar, flipping through Newsweek by herself, instead of heading over to the small round table to chat with the professor.

  The professor, too, seemed puzzled. The desire to unch into an academic lecture was practically radiating off his face with nowhere to go.

  After finishing his Arabian Mocha-Java, he left, visibly disheartened.

  From then on, I only saw him twice more.

  Naturally, I was just as confused.

  The young boss dy, with her delicate features and almost no makeup, hardly seemed like a business owner. Despite the title, her demeanor and actions resembled those of a PhD student who had no intention of writing a dissertation.

  Every day, she would sit in the shop reading magazines and books or doing crafts meant for elementary school kids, like making nterns or building tiny houses out of straws. I had never seen her serve a cup of coffee to a customer or clean up after them.

  The only thing that could be considered “managing the shop” was her occasional addition of small decorative touches, but even that was hardly an effort.

  However, every day, she would personally prepare ingredients for a special coffee, always ready to brew two cups at any time. Its full name was “Boss Lady's Uncertain Special Blend,” but everyone just called it “Boss Lady's Special Blend.”

  The word “uncertain” was because her coffee-making skills were even less reliable than mine.

  Watching her grind coffee beans by hand was like watching the Jade Rabbit pounding medicine on the moon—clumsy yet endearing. But the coffee grounds she produced were always inconsistently coarse or fine, as if she was sabotaging them on purpose.

  Then came the brewing process. No matter what method she used—French press, drip coffee maker, Moka pot, espresso machine, siphon coffee maker, or even a simple cloth filter—she always handled it like it was her first time. Either she let the coffee steep too long, or she left the filter hole too wide. In the end, the quality of her coffee was never guaranteed, and a good cup was rare.

  Honestly, I suspected that without Albus, the cafe wouldn't st three days.

  As for the word “special,” that, of course, referred to the Boss Lady's unique touch.

  Occasionally, she would pce a few poetic rose petals on the fragrant and lively Kenyan coffee or drop some sour plums into the slightly tangy Colombian brew. She had even made something called germinated coffee, which sounded proper but was undeniably bizarre. And those were still on the normal side. Once, I even saw her drop a freshly peeled orange into a naturally sweet Golden Coast blend. The way she giggled made it clear—she definitely did it on purpose.

  Naturally, I had mentioned these odd occurrences to my family.

  “Your boss is so weird. I think I should go there sometime, order that ‘‘Boss Lady’s Stomachache Coffee,’ and ask her why she’s so strange.” That was my dad's conclusion after hearing my story.

  “An alien. She's definitely an alien.” My brother agreed.

  “Are you certain working there is safe? What if she's secretly an arsonist?” My mom, as always, worried too much.

  “Actually, the boss dy is really nice. Everyone has their quirks. Take my brother, for example—he's probably the weirdest of all. You guys just don't notice it anymore because you've lived with him for too long.” I said this while watching my brother, who was in the living room shaving his armpits with a stupid grin on his face.

  And so, the ‘Boss Lady’s Uncertain Blend, which changed every day and sold for just 99 yuan, was always reserved for just one lucky customer.

  Whoever had the fortune (or misfortune) of ordering it would get to enjoy a cup of coffee and a conversation with the ‘Boss Lady’—perhaps as compensation for any potential stomach troubles.

  That day, after the physics professor finished his strange Arab Mocha Java, got up, and left, I finally couldn't hold back any longer and walked over to the dejected ‘Boss Lady.

  "Boss, may I ask you a question?"

  I had only been working at the shop for a short time, and I wasn't exactly comfortable prying into personal matters, but my curiosity had reached its limit.

  "You want to ask why I go through the trouble of brewing two cups of absolutely terrible coffee every day, right?"

  The ‘boss dy lifted her face from a pile of magazines. Her clumsiness only seemed intentional when she was making coffee.

  "Yeah. I've only been here a few days, and I already find it really strange. Boss, why do you personally make coffee every day and wait for customers? Sometimes, even when it's almost closing time, I still see you sitting by the round table, unwilling to leave, just hoping someone will order your special blend. If someone does, you seem so happy. But if no one does, you look somewhat disappointed."

  I asked, unable to shake the feeling that there was something more behind her routine.