Finding God At The Bottom Of A Cappuccino

"There are miracles every night," he said.
I looked at the card.
"Last night, a woman in a wheelchair walked again," he said.
I looked at the card again. Every night from 7pm except Mondays. I guess even miracle makers need a night off.
"Really?" I said.
He was thin, well dressed and had a slight accent. He had sat down next to me, nursing an espresso, and talked about the weather, then about himself, then about god. I don't know why he picked me. I was drinking a cappuccino and looking out of the window, killing the Sunday afternoon. Maybe I looked lost, maybe I looked as if I needed saving.
"I don't believe," I said.
"You should come and see," he said. "There are miracles every night."
Except Mondays. There are no miracles on Mondays. There are no miracles most nights.
"Every one can believe what they want," I said and gave the card back. I finished my cappuccino, said goodbye and walked out into the sinful world.
I mean, Jesus, if God's trying to get me to believe he should at least send a hot nun.