The Kopi Tin Before the First LRT

The uncle at the next table has already argued about the football score twice, and the sun is not properly up yet. I like coming here early — not because I am productive, but because the kopitiam has a different personality before seven. The fans are still. The kopi socks are lined up like small brown helmets. Someone is always wiping a table that looks clean enough already.

I order kopi si kosong the way I always do. The auntie does not ask anymore; she just nods and pulls the sock harder than necessary, which is part of the ritual. The first LRT has not come through yet. You can tell because the regulars still speak at full volume and the newspaper stack has not been disturbed by the office crowd.

Three uncles share one table and three different breakfast orders. One has half-boiled eggs with so much pepper it looks like a small snowfield. One has kaya toast cut into exact triangles. The third has nothing except kopi and opinions. They talk about the price of parking at Lot One, whether the new bench at the void deck will survive the teenagers, and a nephew who is "studying overseas" which everyone knows means Australia.

I sit near the window where I can see Teck Whye Lane waking up. A delivery rider stops for thirty seconds and leaves with two packets. The florist rolls her stand out inch by inch. From here you can hear the first bus air-brake at the corner — a sound like someone clearing their throat before a long day.

What I come for, honestly, is the order of things. The auntie always burns the first sock slightly; the uncle always complains it is too sweet even when it is not; the floor gets mopped in a figure-eight pattern that misses the same corner every time. I find that comforting in a way I do not tell my colleagues about. They think I am an early riser. I am not, particularly. I am someone who trades twenty minutes of sleep for a seat before the morning rush claims this room.

When the first LRT finally rolls overhead — you feel it before you hear it, a faint tremor in the plastic chairs — the coffeeshop shifts. Phones come out. Tie knots get adjusted in motorcycle mirrors parked outside. The uncle table splits the bill with coins counted individually. I finish the last inch of kopi, already cooling, and fold my tabloid without reading most of it.

Walking back I pass the covered walkway where the auntie who sells tissues on weekends is setting up. She waves. I wave. Neither of us speaks. The estate is moving into its louder self — school uniforms, market trolleys, the hum of the estate turning over like an engine that has been idling and is now ready to go.

I will be back Thursday. Probably the same seat. The auntie will pretend to forget my order and I will pretend to be surprised. The uncles will have new material. The kopi tin will still be dented on the left side. Some things here do not need improving. They just need showing up.