The uncle said, "You watching again?" — not annoyed, just amused.
I come to this kopitiam off Yishun Ring Road when I want the day to start on a page I can actually see. Not the office inbox. Not the interchange crowd. Just teh tarik, the long pour, and the ten seconds when the froth holds a colour that is neither tea nor milk but something in between — like a highlight marker on a rough page.
Monday I arrived earlier than usual because my bus came fast for once. The shutters were half up. An auntie was already at the corner table with her crossword and a kopi that steamed like a small flag. I ordered teh tarik kurang manis and leaned on the counter rail because the front tables were still being wiped.
What I watch is the arc. The uncle lifts the pot high — higher than necessary, which is the point — and the stream catches light from the fluorescent tubes in a way that makes the liquid look briefly orange. Then the pull back, the collision in the mug, the foam rising. For three seconds, maybe four on a good pour, the surface stays banded: dark base, pale collar, tiny bubbles catching white at the rim. Then it folds into itself and becomes one colour. Ordinary again.
I started counting the seconds after a colleague said I "romanticise breakfast." Maybe I do. But the kopitiam is full of people who understand timing without naming it — the toast uncle who flips at exactly the right tan, the cleaner who mops between waves, the regular who taps his card before the order is spoken. The froth is my version of that. A small performance with a fixed ending.
Today a boy asked his mother why the uncle "throws the tea." She said it makes it smooth. He accepted this the way children accept magic when the evidence is in the cup. I wanted to tell him the froth is also a colour lesson — how two things blend until the edge disappears — but the mother was already steering him toward the egg counter and the moment passed.
I drink halfway, let the rest cool, watch the kopitiam fill. Office lanyards appear. School uniforms. A contractor in dusty boots who still gets a nod from the uncle. The ring road outside starts its steady noise. Inside, the fan rotates with a click I have memorised. This place is not pretty in the café sense. It is useful and bright in the way neighbourhood food places are when they know your order before you speak.
When the froth is gone, the page is still worth keeping — but the best line is always that banded second at the top. I finished my cup, left the change in the jar, and walked to the interchange with the taste of condensed milk and tea on my tongue and the image still intact, which is the whole reason I write these pages at all.
Same counter next week, probably. The uncle will ask if I am watching again. I will say yes. He will pour higher on purpose — a small joke between us — and the froth will hold for three seconds, as always, before the day merges its colours.