A Quiet Friday, Two Business Lunches, and One Whole Cake

Another two weeks gone.

I honestly do not know where they went. One moment I was arriving in Lviv with a reasonable plan, a clean notebook, and the foolish optimism of a man who believed paperwork could be “finished.” The next moment I was buried under Clovis forms, field reports, missing receipts, three urgent messages marked “not urgent,” and one internal memo asking me to explain why the staff kitchen now had a sign saying “do not negotiate with the toaster.”

So yes. Another two weeks vanished.

But finally, this Friday in Lviv turned out to be one of those suspiciously peaceful days that make me uneasy only because nothing exploded, folded through a dimensional seam, or attempted to bite anyone.

Morning began quietly at the ibis, where I sat near the window with coffee strong enough to revive ancient gods and a plate of scrambled eggs that looked exactly the same every single morning, as if the hotel kitchen operated outside linear time. I liked that. Predictability is rare in my life.

Rain tapped softly against the glass. Trams hummed somewhere beyond the square. No emergency calls from the Clovis Institute. No unstable artifacts. No reports of animated luggage again.

A miracle.

By ten, I had settled into a corner table at Kava z Molokom with my laptop, a stack of papers, and the expression of a man attempting to explain interdimensional customs regulations to accountants.

Most of the paperwork involved entirely ordinary things: registry transfers, procurement signatures, a complaint regarding “unlicensed temporal docking,” and one expense report simply labeled “duck incident.”

The barista eventually stopped asking questions.

I spent nearly three hours there, alternating between typing reports and staring thoughtfully into space like a retired detective in a European art film. At one point I became so focused that I absentmindedly stirred sugar into an already empty cup.

By lunchtime, I decided I had earned something substantial.

That decision led me directly to Hlopska Restoracia Burachok.

The restaurant was busy, warm, full of voices and the smell of bread and roasted meat. I studied the business lunch menu carefully. Then the second business lunch menu.

The waiter waited politely.

“I’ll take both,” I said.

The waiter blinked.

“Both… soups?”

“Yes.”

“And both mains?”

“Yes.”

“…and both desserts?”

I lowered the menu with complete seriousness.

“It is important for comparative research.”

The waiter looked genuinely concerned for a moment before slowly writing it down.

Two nearby office workers stopped talking and watched with the fascination usually reserved for public magic tricks.

To my credit, I handled the situation professionally. One soup at a time. Precise strategy. Bread placement optimized. Careful pacing. The second plate nearly defeated me, but I persevered with the quiet determination of a man who had once crossed three collapsing realities for a decent sandwich.

When I finally leaned back in victory, the waiter returned carrying the bill with the respectful expression usually given to heavyweight champions.

“Everything good?”

I nodded solemnly.

“The committee will be pleased.”

After lunch came a haircut at a stylish little studio tucked into one of Lviv’s side streets. I enjoyed the strange luxury of sitting still while someone else worried about details for once. Warm lights, quiet music, the smell of shampoo and coffee. I emerged looking slightly more civilized and considerably less like a man who occasionally slept in train stations between dimensions.

The afternoon drifted lazily afterward. Some shopping. A bookstore visit where I bought a novel I probably would not have time to read. A stop to look at old trams passing through the center. The city felt calm, golden, almost suspended in amber.

Toward evening I ended up at More Coffee.

That was where the problem began.

The walnut cake arrived quietly beside my coffee. Simple appearance. No dramatic decoration. Just layers of soft cream, walnuts, delicate sponge, and the sort of smell capable of healing emotional damage.

I took one bite.

Then another.

By the third, I stopped pretending to read the menu.

The barista passed by an hour later and noticed the empty plate.

“Another piece?”

I considered dignity for approximately two seconds.

“Yes.”

By sunset, six slices had vanished.

Not quickly. Not chaotically. With deep appreciation and academic focus.

The staff began recognizing me on sight. Someone in the kitchen laughed every time another slice disappeared from the display.

When I finally stood to leave, I paused near the counter.

“One more thing,” I said.

The barista smiled carefully, already afraid of the answer.

“I would like to order a whole walnut cake for next week.”

“A whole cake?”

“Yes.”

“For… an event?”

I adjusted my coat with complete seriousness.

“No. For precautionary reasons.”

Outside, evening lights reflected across wet stone streets as trams rolled through the city. Lviv carried on quietly around me, ordinary and alive.

For one rare Friday, the multiverse behaved itself.

And walking back toward the hotel with coffee warmth lingering in my hands and the memory of walnut cake still haunting my soul, I decided that perhaps existence was not entirely unreasonable after all.