The kitchen is warm, a single lamp casting soft light over the counter. He moves methodically, knife in hand, slicing a bright red bell pepper. The air carries a faint hum of oil heating in the pan, waiting. Outside, the world is quiet, but inside, there’s a story unfolding, and he speaks like you’re the only one there to hear it.  

“You ever notice how some people live behind their silence?” he begins, his voice conversational but with an edge of curiosity, like he’s sharing a secret. The blade slides through the pepper’s glossy skin, revealing its pale ribs and a scattering of seeds. “They’re like this pepper—smooth, perfect, like nothing can touch them. But you cut just a little, and…” He flicks the seeds onto the counter with the tip of the knife. “There’s the mess.”  

He tosses the slices into the pan, and the oil hisses. The sound is sharp, startling, like a sudden argument. He doesn’t look up, his focus on the food, but his words fill the room.  

“Today was one of those days. Started quiet. Stayed quiet—for a while. But I see everything. That’s the thing about me. Most people walk through their day half-blind, but not me. I see the cracks, the whispers, the looks people don’t think anyone’s noticing. I hear the jokes that aren’t really jokes, the smiles that don’t reach their eyes. I see it all.”  

---

At the café, it started like any other day. The usual lineup: a latte here, an almond croissant there. A woman tapping impatiently at her phone, a man swiping furiously on his. And then him.  

“There’s this guy,” I say, turning the heat down as the peppers begin to soften, their edges curling inward. “Tall, quiet, always orders the same thing. Black coffee. No sugar, no cream. Just black.” The wooden spoon hovers over the pan for a moment. “He’s one of those people who never smiles, never frowns. Just… exists. Like he’s carved out of stone or something. You wouldn’t think twice about him if you weren’t looking.”  

But I was. I always am.  

“He took his usual seat by the window,” I say, stirring the peppers gently now. “Not a great seat for blending in, but maybe that’s the point. It’s a good vantage spot. You can see everything from there, and more importantly, everyone can see you.”  

It was quiet until a group of college kids came in, laughing too loud, the wet smell of rain trailing behind them. They filled the air with chatter, their voices bouncing off the walls like rubber balls.  

“They were all crammed around this tiny table, elbows knocking, spilling over onto each other like puppies that hadn’t figured out boundaries yet. I wasn’t listening—” he glances at you, smirking as though you’d call him out. “Okay, fine, I was. Can you blame me? They were talking about Basquiat. Not exactly what you expect from kids still clutching pumpkin spice lattes.”  

---

He steps back from the pan, letting the peppers simmer as he reaches for a handful of spinach.  

“One of them was talking about Basquiat’s use of color,” he continues, the spinach crinkling in his hand. “How it was chaotic, untrained, but deliberate. It wasn’t pretentious, though—it sounded like he really felt it, you know? The way he said it, like he was holding the whole idea of Basquiat’s work in his chest and it was too much to keep in.”  

And that’s when it happened.  

“I was wiping down the counter,” he says, sprinkling the spinach into the pan. “Trying not to look like I was paying attention. But I saw it. The guy by the window—the black coffee guy? He smiled. Just for a second. Not a big, toothy grin. Just a flicker. But it was real. It was there.”  

He stirs the pan again, letting the spinach wilt into the peppers.  

“You know how rare that is? To catch someone like that slipping? It’s like spotting a shadow that shouldn’t be there. Blink, and you miss it. But I didn’t blink. I saw it.”  

---

The paprika comes next, a pinch dusted over the pan. It spreads quickly, turning everything a deep, smoky red.  

“People are like that,” he says, his tone quieter now, like he’s letting you in on something sacred. “They hide behind smooth surfaces, behind silence, and you think they’re unshakable. But everyone’s got something underneath. And sometimes, if you’re looking—really looking—you catch it. Just a moment. A smile. A shift in their eyes. Like a comet that only comes around once in a lifetime.”  

He pauses, stirring slowly, the peppers and spinach soft now, their colors rich but muted.  

“That smile’s been stuck in my head all day. I kept wondering: was he a Basquiat fan? Did the kid’s excitement remind him of something? Or someone? Or maybe it wasn’t about the words at all. Maybe it was about connection. That accidental kind that sneaks up on you and disappears before you can hold onto it.”  

---

The dish is done now, the kitchen quiet except for the faint crackle of oil as the pan cools. He plates the food with care, the red and green spilling together in a deliberate mess.  

“You know,” he says, stepping back and gesturing toward the plate, “peppers are like people. Sweet, sharp, a little bitter if you cook them too fast. They hide their heat until you dig a little deeper. But if you handle them right?” He tilts his head, watching you as though he’s waiting for you to understand. “They surprise you.”  

He sets the plate down in front of you, his voice softening to something almost tender.  

“That guy today? The smile? It wasn’t much, but it was something. A little glimpse of what’s underneath. And if you’re lucky, if you’re paying attention, you get to see it.”  

He picks up a fork, twirling a piece of spinach around it, and smiles faintly.  

“Go on. Try it. See if you taste what I mean.”