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I am Lily . Last Friday evening my friend Rosa and I met at Corner Café on Bridge Street . We chose the place because live music started at seven on Fridays . When we opened the door , every table was full and people were talking loudly near the small stage . A waiter was carrying trays while customers were searching for free chairs . Rosa was pointing to a corner where two men were finishing their desserts . We were waiting near the bar when a couple stood up and left cash on the table . I was moving quickly , but another group was sitting down before we arrived . Rosa was laughing because competition for seats felt like a game . Finally a staff member was leading us to a high table by the window . Jazz music was playing softly , and lights were shining on copper lamps above the counter . We were reading the menu when the singer was adjusting her microphone . While we were deciding between soup and salad , the kitchen was sending out plates of hot pasta . Smells were filling the room , and my stomach was reminding me that I skipped lunch . Rosa was recommending the tomato soup she tried last month . Our waiter was taking orders when a tray fell in the back and cups were breaking on the floor . For a second everyone was looking toward the noise , then conversations were starting again . The manager was apologizing to nearby tables with calm words . We were eating soup when the band was beginning the second song . Rosa was tapping her foot , and I was writing a reminder about weekend plans on a napkin . Outside , rain was starting , and taxis were stopping under the bright awning . At eight my brother Marco was calling to say he was nearby with friends . They were coming inside five minutes later , and chairs were appearing from the back room . We were pushing tables together while the music was growing louder . Marco was telling jokes when Rosa was ordering a second pot of tea . I was feeling happy because a busy room was turning into a warm party with familiar faces . The singer was dedicating a song to the Friday crowd . When we were leaving at ten , staff were cleaning tables and were stacking chairs on the stage . Rosa was thanking the waiter , and I was zipping my coat against the cold street . We were walking home under shared umbrellas while the café lights were going out behind us . That Friday showed how a crowded room can still feel friendly with patience and good music . We were arriving , others were leaving , and later we were sharing one table with more friends than we planned .
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