What breakfast costs when you finally count it

The counter was narrow and sticky where the espresso machine dripped. I stood with my elbow next to a man who held his cup in one hand and a folded receipt in the other. He finished, set the cup down, and left without saying anything.

Milfontes in late summer. The mornings still carried cool air from the river before the heat pressed in. I had been here longer than I planned.

I realised at some point that breakfast is the one meal I never skip and never think about. Lunch shifts around. Dinner sometimes disappears. But the first coffee and whatever to eat always happens, and I never count it.

So for seven days I wrote it down. Coffee standing at the counter, always the same kind. Bread from the place downstairs with the blue awning. Sometimes a piece of fruit from the stall near the bridge, where a woman with paint on her thumbs weighed things on a scale that looked older than me.

The coffee was what you expect in a Portuguese town. You stand. You drink. You pay almost nothing. The bread was less than I would have guessed. The fruit was the only thing that varied, and only because the plums came in different sizes.

I kept the notes in my phone. Each morning, after the café and the bread, I typed the amounts into a list. It took about ten seconds. The list grew to seven lines. Nothing about it felt deliberate. It felt like the most ordinary thing I had done in weeks.

Day four, the man at the counter slid a pastel de nata across to me without being asked. I had not ordered one. He shrugged. I ate it standing up and wrote down nothing for it because I did not know what it cost. He waved me off when I tried to pay. It was still warm. The custard held its shape for a second before it broke.

Day five, I tried the café closer to the river. The counter was wider and the coffee tasted the same. A dog slept under the only table. The owner stepped over it each time he brought something out. The dog watched me with one open eye. I stayed longer than the other days because the shade was good.

Day six, I skipped the bread. Just coffee and two figs from a tree that hung over a wall near the bus stop. A woman with a dog on a lead saw me reach for the lower branch and said something I did not catch. She was smiling. The figs were warm from the sun and split open in my hand. I did not write a number for those either.

By the end of the week I added it up. The total was lower than the number I had in my head. Not by much. But enough that I noticed. I had been assuming I was spending more, which is a strange thing to assume about something you never measured. The gap was not large. It was the fact of the gap that stayed with me.

I thought about the Tuesday market and how the produce from the stalls ended up cheaper than anything from the shop once you compared them. Same pattern. I never trust the low numbers until they are written down. Even then I doubt them a little.

I didn’t take a photo. I don’t know why. The receipts are still in my pocket, folded into something soft and unreadable.

Seven years of night shifts taught me to eat without checking. The hospital cafeteria had fixed prices. You tapped your card and moved on. I think that habit came with me when I left. Not looking. Trusting the small things to stay small. Maybe they do. I have not checked that either.

If you’re thinking about it

• Coffee standing at the counter costs noticeably less than sitting at a table in most places.
• The bakery with the blue awning opens early and sells half-loaves.
• Fruit from the stalls near the bridge is cheaper than the shop on the corner.
• Bring coins. Some places still prefer cash.

That’s all I wrote down.