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I can see seven cameras from where I sit.

The woman who, yesterday, made my latte and handed me two cups of water and a perfectly opened—perfectly: with a sharp crease down the center of the cap, one edge lifted 45 degrees and the other edge still hugging the glass rim—bottle of Coke, makes my latte once more this morning.

I know it’s a uniform—the flat, casual affect of her outfit feels as if it is part of the cafe—but she’s not expressing herself in spite of the aesthetic guidelines she was told to follow. These are her clothes. She seems to resonate with it. Every part of her seems to resonate with this place.

Her almost-black hair is the same tone as the dark wooden tables. Her practiced hand has the same precision as the neatly-ordered pastries. Her circular never-lit smart watch with a white band has the same composition as the cameras—the cameras, I’ve counted eleven.

Two employees, twenty patrons. Eleven cameras. One guards each exit. One monitors the glass-walled employee break room. Two monitor the entrance to and interior of the kitchen. One looms directly above the tablet register.