I

About a few months ago, my boss, having read some investment advice somewhere, ran into the shop and chatted with me for half an hour about the "Tulip Mania" in the context of the new era. Then, he told me he had decided to turn this coffee shop into a bar—or, to be precise, using the new buzzword he’d stumbled upon: "Coffee by day, alcohol by night." He swore to me that this business model would hit all the pain points of today's youth and would definitely reverse our shop's lack of customers. The problem, however, was that he had no money. So, when I asked him what we were going to do about a bartender or the renovation, he glanced around the room and then fixed his gaze on me.

"Bartending is a minor issue. You can even do latte art, so what’s bartending? I’ll count the night shift as overtime and give you 1.5 times the pay. How about that?"

Considering the 1.5x pay and his promise that we wouldn't serve customers after 10 PM, I didn't argue further. In truth, I hadn't even mastered latte art yet, and I didn't tell him that if the bar closed at 10 PM, it was highly unlikely we'd have any customers. But then, on second thought, if he was willing to hire someone like me, he couldn't possibly have much business acumen anyway.

In any case, over the next month, he somehow acquired a pile of alcohol, moved the coffee beans he’d acquired in a similar fashion to the side, and handed me a set of bartending tools, telling me we’d be open for business next week. I stared at the search engine and the AI-generated "quick-start" bartending tips, looked up the brands, flavors, estates, and characteristics of these liquors, and then just threw my hands up. Screw it, if all else fails, I’ll just use that trick:

"Believe it or not, I can choose the coffee that best suits your personality." Then, I’d just mix in random flavors to make it complex and tell them that because they were inherently complex and diverse people, the first taste was just a mask they wore for others, and only those willing to delve deeper could truly experience them. It worked every time.

II

After we started opening at night, as expected, there weren't many customers. Occasionally, young couples attracted by the decor would come in, order two cocktails, and sit in the booths whispering to each other. For the guys, I’d mix drinks that were bitter at first and sweet later; for the girls, sweet at first and astringent later. Add two mint leaves and a cherry, and they could sit there and flirt for an hour.

Only one person was an exception. She must have been a friend of the boss; she came with him on opening day, and after that, she’d show up a few days a week. Every time she came, she’d sit in the corner of the bar, order a whiskey—sometimes with ice, mostly without—and leave whenever she finished. The rye she usually drank was something she kept at the counter. Sometimes, if she finished it, she’d accept whatever else I chose, but the next time, she’d bring a new bottle.

Later, she suddenly asked me, "How many types of drinks can you make now?"

I instinctively replied, "That depends on what you want to drink. I can mix the drink you want based on your mood."

She smiled. "Forget it. That trick is something I taught your boss. Let me teach you how to make a drink. It’s very simple. Remember it."

This drink was indeed simple. The base was rye, then a dash of dry vermouth and a drop of orange bitters. After stirring, I squeezed a bit of oil from an orange peel into a chilled glass. After I made it and handed it to her, she swirled the glass and took a sip. "Not bad. No wonder your manager praises your talent."

I wiped a glass and asked, "What’s the name of this drink? I’ll add it to the menu."

She gave that short, dry laugh again. "Stealing my ideas now? You’ve got a real head for business." She looked at the glass, pondered for a moment, then looked up and smiled at me. "You can call it Marguerite."

After that, she only ever ordered a Marguerite, which is why I privately referred to her as Lady Marguerite.

III

I called her "Lady Marguerite" instead of "Sister Marguerite" because of the vibe she gave off at the bar. After she taught me that drink, we’d have conversations from time to time, mostly standard social pleasantries—the weather, the temperature, or the slow business. She spoke slowly and looked at the person she was talking to with gentle eyes, a gaze that seemed to coax more words out of your throat. But she had a different look when she stared at her glass, as if she could carve the air around her out of the environment.

Setting aside these strange, self-imagined atmospheres, the simpler reason was that I felt "Sister Marguerite" wouldn't drink a Marguerite at a bar; they would all fall for my "mood-based" bartending act. "Lady" felt a bit offensive, too; her fingers were slender, and clearly, there was no ring on them. But it didn't matter. I just thought the title sounded cool, like a fragment from a movie or a novel.

As it turned out, I was dead wrong in my understanding of "Lady" and "Madam." One ordinary weekend night, a young couple came in. The boy, with an artistic air, talked at length about the world's major liquor types and their characteristics, while the girl’s eyes were filled with sparkling admiration. They sat in the middle of the bar, and the boy tapped the counter. "A whiskey, with ice." Then he turned to the girl, who was still frowning at the menu.

I was just about to open my mouth to pitch my mood-based bartending method when I saw the boy pick up the menu, browse it, point to the Marguerite, and say, "Give her one of these."

I warned him, "It’s hard for a beginner to get used to this one."

The boy looked at the menu, then at me. "That’s not right. Isn't this a drink suitable for girls?"

Customers have their own logic, I thought. I pushed over an amber-colored Marguerite, and then I received the first complaint in my three years of working at this shop. He called the boss and said, "Why would a shop with such professional decor hire such an unprofessional bartender?" I’m certain the boss was secretly delighted when he heard that.

In the end, after paying the price of a free meal and a "mood cocktail," I looked up the real Marguerite recipe online. The couple eventually went to a booth. The ice in the boy's glass was melting; he didn't seem to notice, and I didn't say anything.

IV

The next day, Lady Marguerite was the same as always. After entering, she hung her coat on the rack, tied her hair into a low ponytail, sat in her usual spot, and looked at me. "Hello, one Marguerite. It’s so cold outside today."

I gave her a professional smile. "Dear guest, would you like the classic tequila-based Marguerite, or our shop's unique Marguerite?"

She laughed when she heard that, then blinked. "Then let me try the classic Marguerite."

An unexpected choice, since I had already taken out the whiskey. Finally, I recalled yesterday's recipe, mixed a Marguerite, and pushed it to her.

"You’re supposed to add a salt rim to the glass. You’re not professional at all."

I couldn't help but ask, "Since you know what this drink is, why did you tell me to call it Marguerite and get me complained about for the first time in my life?"

She laughed again; she seemed to be in a good mood today. "You should have refuted him. You could have said, 'My Marguerite is the French Marguerite, he wanted a Margarita, it just happens to be a homonym.'"

I sighed. Though the complaint didn't really affect me, I just felt like I’d been set up. Then I handed her the menu and asked her to write down the French word she just mentioned, otherwise, how would I know if she was messing with me again? Her handwriting was beautiful. I used AI to search the word on the menu, and it really existed, meaning "daisy." I asked her, "Then why Marguerite?"

She stared at the glass, pondered for a long time, took a sip, looked up, and answered with that unique air around her when she drank: "Marguerite is the name of a prostitute." The answer was so bizarre that I didn't know what to say for a moment, so I just instinctively wiped the glass. She didn't speak again, slowly drinking that cocktail that was missing this and that.

V

Two or three days after I was complained about, in the afternoon—the slowest time for the coffee shop—the sun shone diagonally through the glass door into the shop. There was no one inside, and I was slacking off, scrolling through Zhihu. The boss suddenly pushed the door open, his tone carrying his signature "good news" vibe. "Feeling aggrieved about being complained about the other day? I brought you a consolation red envelope." He slapped the red envelope onto the bar.

I put down my crossed legs, stood up, put away my phone, and asked with a smile, "Boss, what would you like to drink?" while tucking the red envelope into my pocket.

"A cup of Nescafé instant coffee."

"Coming right up."

I handed him the coffee and made one for myself, too. Just like that, two people who didn't know how to appreciate coffee spent an afternoon in a coffee shop with absolutely no customers.

Just as I couldn't appreciate coffee at all, I never thought I’d be grinding coffee in a coffee shop, let alone becoming a bartender. Three years ago, when I first came to this city, all I thought was that if I had to pick a city to spend the next few days in, it was because the band I liked was playing a live show here in two days.

I met the boss at the live house. He was standing right next to me, not singing along, not taking photos, and not playing on his phone. The curiosity sparked by such behavior made me answer when he started chatting with me, completely off-guard.

After learning that I had only been in the city for a few days and planned to stay for a while, he suggested he was planning to open a coffee shop and didn't have a suitable barista yet, asking if I wanted to give it a try. I refused without a second thought, secretly despising the pickup techniques of men these days.

Judging by my current job, perhaps my refusal back then wasn't that firm. He offered me a very tempting condition: I could freely choose what music to play in the shop. I said I had never touched coffee, and he said neither had he, telling me to just search online for how to use a coffee machine, and in a couple of days, he’d teach me a "killer move" that could handle the whole coffee shop.

Then he taught me the so-called "mood drink method." From that day on, I’ve worked at this shop until now.

VI

The boss must be very free; he hadn't left yet when Lady Marguerite arrived. Actually, after what happened, I was a bit hesitant about whether to keep calling her that, but then I thought, she wouldn't know anyway, and it was a rare, interesting name I’d come up with.

After Lady Marguerite came in, the boss put down the gacha game he’d been playing all afternoon in the booth, got up, and greeted her. Lady Marguerite nodded, then looked at me. "A Marguerite. Doesn't it worry you that letting people lie around playing on their phones affects business?"

I smiled and said, "I’ve tried chasing him away, but he won't leave." Then I took out the whiskey Lady Marguerite kept here and started mixing her drink. The boss walked over to us at some point. "Make me a Marguerite, too. An authentic one."

I pushed the drink to Lady Marguerite, then washed my hands and started mixing the second one. Lady Marguerite watched me for a while and asked, "I’ve been curious for a while, why do you have to wash your hands so seriously before mixing every drink?"

The boss chimed in from the side, "It’s not just mixing drinks; he does the same when making coffee."

I recalled the recipe for an authentic Marguerite while answering, "It’s a habit I picked up at a Japanese restaurant. I had to wash my hands before making every piece of sushi. The head chef was very strict back then; there was a fixed process and steps for washing hands, and it had to last for a full thirty seconds."

The boss added, "There’s a saying that rice balls made by hand taste better."

Lady Marguerite continued to ask, "Why didn't you continue being a chef?"

My hands paused for a moment, then I smiled and answered, "Because I felt I wasn't suited for it, and I wasn't very talented."

Lady Marguerite raised her glass, and suddenly the topic shifted. "Did you like that head chef?"

I was rubbing sea salt on the rim of the glass and froze when I heard that. "Ah, why?"

"These kinds of inexplicable habits are most easily formed because you like someone."

"Is that so?" I instinctively wanted to find an example to refute her, but I couldn't think of a strong argument for a moment.

The boss suddenly interjected, "But what’s the point of that? Keeping a habit that the other person brought into your life."

I was curious how Lady Marguerite would answer, but she fell into a brief silence. She gently toyed with the glass, her eyes seemingly directed at me, but the focus was on the empty space behind me. After a long while, she refocused on me, and then I saw her smile slightly at the boss. "What the hell do you know?"

I pushed the mixed drink to the boss and sighed. "You two are getting more and more absurd."

The boss took a sip and gave me a thumbs up. "As expected of a chef, you’re the most talented bartender I’ve ever seen after just a little learning."

I rolled my eyes slightly. "...You probably haven't seen many bartenders."

VII

After Valentine's Day, the last shift before the Spring Festival ended. However, this year's Valentine's Day was different from previous years; the boss hadn't prepared any Valentine's Day events, and business wasn't good. It’s hard to say if there were no customers because there were no events, or no events because there were no customers. Anyway, by eight o'clock, there were only one or two scattered people in the shop, and they were preparing to leave.

The boss messaged me, saying I could close up and go home since there was no one left, no need to stay too late. I replied "okay" and wished him an early Happy New Year.

As I was tidying the bar and washing my hands to close up, Lady Marguerite came in. Unlike usual, she wasn't alone; a man was following her. Out of curiosity, I took a few extra looks at the man. He was wearing a trench coat and a scarf, clearly the type who paid attention to his attire. After sitting down, a faint scent even wafted over.

Lady Marguerite sat in her usual spot and said to me, "Two Marguerites." Then she turned to the man. "Is that okay?" The man nodded and sat beside her.

Until I pushed the drinks over, neither of them said a word. I pretended to wipe a glass I had already wiped, suppressing my curiosity. Finally, the man raised his glass, Lady Marguerite raised hers to clink with his, and then the man spoke: "Happy New Year." His voice was raspy from not speaking for a long time.

Lady Marguerite also said, "Happy New Year."

Silence fell again, but not for long. The man spoke: "Are you going back to your hometown for the Spring Festival this year?"

Lady Marguerite gave a "hmm" and said, "Maybe."

"How are you going back? Driving or taking the train?"

I felt like I heard Lady Marguerite sigh softly, then she turned to look at the man. "Why on earth did you come to find me? Didn't we agree?"

The man didn't speak, took a small sip of his drink, as if swallowing the small talk he’d just made. Then he opened his mouth: "I just felt that if I didn't come to find you, I’d regret it. It’s like... I’ve lost something very important."

"For example? What important thing?"

"I don't know, but the feeling of being hollowed out is real. I feel like I can't be without you."

"No one is 'can't be without someone.' We aren't children."

"I thought that at first, too. I thought I was an independent... a mature person. But interacting with you, the new things you brought me are different. They seem to have filled in the part of me that I’ve always been missing—something in my heart, I don't know how to say it, but I can feel that you seem to have made me whole."

"At most, I gave you some sense of validation; it wasn't anything very special." Lady Marguerite’s voice was as magnetic as ever, as if the long speech the man had just poured out was nothing but light and airy to her. She swirled her glass and took a sip.

I couldn't help but sigh; the job of a bartender is truly great. It’s like a camera growing on a glass, giving one a sense of voyeurism.

The man’s shoulders slumped, as if he’d used up half his strength. "It’s not just validation. I don't need validation. What I feel is a deeper, more essential feeling."

Lady Marguerite put down her glass. "You don't want to say it’s love, do you?"

The man nodded. "I think it is."

Lady Marguerite’s gaze finally focused on the man. "You keep using words like 'seems,' 'feel,' 'perhaps'—problems you haven't found the answer to yourself—and you expect me to give you the same answer? Don't you think that’s a bit wrong? I’ve already told you, these feelings of yours are just because I’ve experienced more, so you feel a resonance. But resonance doesn't mean two people are similar, nor does it mean two people are indispensable to each other."

The man countered, "Can't we be together while searching for the answers to these questions?"

I personally saw Lady Marguerite smile, but there was absolutely no happiness in it. She said, "For you, maybe, but for me, no. Why should I accompany you to find the answers?"

The man didn't speak again. After a while, he wanted to pay the bill, and I told him Lady Marguerite had already paid with her balance. Then he sat back down, and within two minutes, he left alone.

Lady Marguerite finished her drink and told me to make another Marguerite.

VIII

When I was washing my hands, I couldn't help but ask Lady Marguerite, "Why can't you look for the answers together?"

She smiled at me. "Because it’s not looking for the answers together. I’ve already found my answer; it’s him who needs to find his."

"So you can't be together?"

"Accompanying someone to find answers is exhausting, and it takes a lot of time."

Today, Lady Marguerite was different from usual; she said more, and she seemed to want to talk more. After saying that, she immediately added, "I’m not a little girl anymore; I don't have that much time to spend."

Influenced by this atmosphere, I felt I could ask more questions. So I asked her, "Then the person from just now, do you like him?"

Only Lady Marguerite and I were left in the shop. The music was playing "Unfortunately I'm an Aquarius," and Miriam Yeung’s voice was stubborn. She blinked and then leaned into the bar, whispering, "I do."

It seemed this answer was too direct, so if I spoke too loudly, this shop would remember it. Lady Marguerite then asked me, "Then what about that head chef we talked about the other day? Do you like him?"

I pushed the new drink to her and whispered, "I do."

There was a strange sense of complicity between the two of us, and then she asked with a sly smile, "Do you want to try the taste of a Marguerite? My treat."

I shook my head. "The boss doesn't let me drink while on duty."

She got up and locked the shop door. "Then just do it after work." I thought about it; the boss did say I could leave early today if there was no one in the shop, and it was about time. So I mixed a Marguerite for myself. When I was washing my hands after mixing it, Lady Marguerite suddenly asked, "What do you usually think about when you wash your hands?"

I shook my head. "I don't seem to be thinking about anything in particular. It’s easiest to remember the sink at that old shop; it was very crowded. He would stand right next to me, washing with me, occasionally saying I hadn't washed for thirty seconds. As a result, now, there’s no one to nag me, but instead, every time I wash my hands, it’s more than thirty seconds, and I wash them more than once a day."

Lady Marguerite didn't say anything, just raised her glass and clinked it against the one I had placed on the table.

This was my first time drinking a Marguerite. The first feeling upon entering was bitterness; it stripped away all the flavorings that might have brought back sweetness. I frowned and looked at Lady Marguerite. She smiled faintly. "You have to take small sips. If you take a big gulp of strong liquor, you won't have time to feel the taste."

Then, as if pondering something, she walked to the side, neatly sliced a small plate of ham with a knife, placed it on the table, and handed me a piece with a toothpick. "Eat this and try again, take smaller sips."

I chewed the ham, washing away the taste of the whiskey, and then took a small sip. It was still bitter, but there seemed to be a citrus flavor, followed by the smoky taste of the whiskey. I shook my head and said, "It doesn't even taste as good as the ham." I suddenly thought of something and asked Lady Marguerite, "I asked you before why this drink is called Marguerite, and you said it was the name of a prostitute. Why?"

Lady Marguerite tapped the rim of the glass with the toothpick and said, "Have you read The Lady of the Camellias?" I shook my head. She continued, "The protagonist in The Lady of the Camellias is named Marguerite, and she’s a prostitute. The name Marguerite in French is a bit like 'Lilac' in Mandarin, or..." She pondered for a moment, as if flowers were appearing in her mind, and finally said, "Magnolia. Don't you think this name feels out of place for a prostitute? But she was a famous courtesan. Just like this drink, it’s called Marguerite, but it’s a strong liquor. Don't you think that’s a perfect fit?"

"What happened later? That Marguerite."

"Later..."

I drank slowly, chewing the ham, with my playlist playing in the shop. Lady Marguerite spoke very softly, telling me about The Lady of the Camellias. The alcohol in the glass was high-proof, making everything in my field of vision blurry, like a defocused lens. Lady Marguerite, at the center of my vision, remained clear. In a trance, I felt I really saw the Lady of the Camellias, quickly living out her life in a glass of wine.

"Later, she died holding a camellia."

IX

After Valentine's Day, the coffee shop didn't open. The boss said to take a few more days off during the holiday. I knew his subtext was that he hoped I would go home, but I still didn't plan to go back this year.

It’s just that every New Year's Eve is like this; many restaurants are closed, and the pedestrians on the street are few and far between, cold and desolate, as if the wind could blow through the entire city without obstruction.

I wandered around, looking for where to eat my New Year's Eve dinner this year, and finally found that I could only go to the mall to find some life. Walking from the first floor to the fourth, the outrageous part was that all the set menus had a minimum requirement of two people.

This reminded me of Maupassant’s essay—A Walk: Old Man Lera, on a whim one day, went out for a walk to eat something delicious. The weather was good, the food was good, the pedestrians on the road were all in love, so he chose to hang himself that early morning.

Perhaps not setting up single-person set menus is to prevent such tragedies; it makes some sense. I nodded slightly at the wild thoughts in my mind, and suddenly felt someone staring at me. I looked up, and it was Lady Marguerite, leaning on the railing and smiling at me.

I went upstairs, greeted her, and asked why she was here. She said she came out to watch a movie, then shook the movie ticket in her hand—it was La La Land. She asked if I’d seen it. I nodded, then shook my head. Although I had seen it, it was a long time ago, maybe in high school, and I’d forgotten what the plot was.

She didn't ask why I was wandering around alone; hearing my answer, she just asked, "Do you want to watch it together?" I didn't think and answered directly, "Okay." Then, in the empty theater, I bought a ticket next to hers.

I must have watched La La Land hiding under the covers in my dorm, and I fell asleep halfway through because the plot was too slow. Watching it again now, I found that except for the beginning where a group of people were singing on the bridge, which I had a vague impression of, I almost couldn't recall any familiar scenes at all.

When the male lead honked his horn wildly in front of the female lead’s parents' house, my tears suddenly fell. Actually, this scene isn't really moving; most people probably wouldn't cry here. Lady Marguerite might have heard me sobbing, rummaged through her bag, and handed me a pack of tissues, but she didn't say anything.

After the movie ended, she got up, hands in her coat pockets, looked at me, and asked, "Do you want to listen to the end credits?" I shook my head, and then she said, "Let’s go, then."

We walked through the mall, quiet for a while. She thought of something, turned her head, and asked, "It’s New Year's Eve today, and it’s so late, why aren't you going home?" I said I was here alone, so it made no difference whether I went back or not. She looked into my eyes and asked what I had planned to eat tonight. I said I hadn't decided.

"Do you want to eat together?" she asked, and I nodded.

She led me out of the mall. The wind was a bit strong, and I tightened my collar. Lady Marguerite’s trench coat wasn't buttoned. The withered leaves of the birch trees on both sides of the road were rustling, and the New Year music from the mall came from behind, then grew further and further away.

After we couldn't hear any noise, Lady Marguerite finally spoke: "Were you thinking of someone in the cinema just now, crying so sadly?"

I shook my head gently and said, "No, it’s just that even though I had already guessed how the ending would develop, seeing every effort turn into... shattered glass pieces, it’s very sad. Why isn't loving each other enough?"

"Then that means you don't love each other that much?" she answered without hesitation.

"What exactly is love? How much love is enough?"

Lady Marguerite was silent for a very, very long time, and we had walked very far, so far that I thought the topic had been skipped, when she answered: "With some people, a little bit of love is enough to last a lifetime; with others, you need a lot, a lot of love to make it to the end. So maybe... love is just glue stuck between two people, or... a nail driven between two people. If you think about it that way, then too much love isn't necessarily a good thing. It might mean that these two people need a lot of love to stick together, so the wounds left when they fall apart are deeper."

I opened my mouth and closed it again. She rarely said such long things, but every time she did, I felt like I had crashed into a massive cold front. In the end, I just said, "If you think about it that way, love isn't that great."