Coffee Shop

Friday
3:57pm

I grab the door of the coffee shop entrance and pull the steel handle towards me. The copper bell held onto the long push bar inside of the door chimes, “She’s here” and all the patrons look up to see who dare disturbed them from their soy mochachinolattes with extra fluff and 1 and a half packs of splenda stirred clockwise 5 times then topped with gluten free whipped cream. I don’t blame them for their scowls. I’d be pissed too if I ordered a cup of coffee and had to pay 5 bucks for it, plus tip and it was cold by the time all the ingredients were poured into it. 

 

Most of the patrons look up at the ding dong chime spectacle the door has made of my entrance. As if I am not awkard enough in a place that requires it’s customers to have an extensive knowledge of spices, creamers, and syrup flavors, it’s raining and my hair and bag are soaked. Why didn’t I wear my expensive Doc Marten rainboots and carry my Ed Hardy umbrella to shield my $500 Japanese all naturally relaxed hair that shines like Orion’s belt?? Oh, that’s right….  Because I am wearing dollar tree flip flops, the  trench coat I got at the free clothing drive and my hair actually looks a lot better wet and glossy rather than poofy and piled into a mass of black curls on my head.  I’m only in here because it’s pouring outside and I cant find it in my soul to make my poor bare feet walk the extra three blocks to McDonald’s where I could pay for a cup of coffee with quarters and would probably be the prettiest girl there. I have my pants legs rolled up yet they are still sopping. The denim is heavy the seam is rubbing against my ankles in a way that once made the mosquito bite I have been carrying around since the canoe ride in the lake say, “Oooh, that’s a good little itch scratcher.” but is now saying, “Please don’t let my  ankle be bleeding on my jeans… please don’t let my ankle be bleeding on my jeans…”.  Once everyone fills up their eyes with the girl with soaking hair, rolled up jeans, and a trench coat that is not quite big enough to cover what are her noticeably large breasts, they go back to their newspapers, laptops, Tom Robbins novels and psych homework.

 

I quietly get in line and begin to survey the menu. Lattes. Mocha. Fraps. Smoothies. Teas of all sorts of flavors and colors coordination. “The extras” vanilla syrup, espresso shots, chai flavoring….  It’s all in greek to me. The man at the counter orders a “white chocolate mocha… hot… no whip.”  The boy at the register has the stubble that a grown man would find annoying, but a man of a mere 21 thinks is attractive.  I imagine him waking up in his apartment on the third floor. His bed is just a boxspring and mattress and it doesn’t have sheets on it, just a sleeping bag. In the winter he zips it up and sleeps inside. My mind makes the sleeping bag a deep brown shade and gives him a pair of pajamas with lettuce designs for the bottom and shredded cheese sprinkles for the top. His pillow joins the confines of my madness and take on the shape of a tomato. Suddenly in the burrito bed I have made for him his pathetic facial hair now fits.  I shake it off and look up at the boy again. He is punching the ingredients into a keyboard on his register. “Would you like to donate a dollar to the blah blah blah blah relief fund and receive a free reusable shopping bag today?” Stubble asks. “No thank you.” Mocha man says with an attempted scowl on his forehead that the botox won’t let come through.  Stubble’s turn, “Five seventy three.” Mocha man hands over his card and it is swiped. Approved. A printer not five feet from Stubble begins to print the order. A small blonde girl pulls it from the black block and tacks it to what looks like a knitting needle twisted into a cobra on the counter and starts to feverishly prepare the drink. Mocha man signs a reciept for Stubble. Stubble hands one to Mocha Man for his own use. Mocha man moves on to the Pick Up Counter and tosses his copy in the trash.

 

You just used your card for a purchase of nearly six dollars. Both you and the coffee house will pay a small percentage for that transaction. You used almost two feet of paper to make receipts, one that was tossed into the garbage and one that will be thrown away at shifts end. You also will throw away that cup with the plastic lid and cardboard koozie. Perhaps later, you will go to Wal-mart… no..  no…. Mocha Man is a Target kind of guy I’m sure and purchase non-biodegradable diapers for your child which will be given to you in a plastic bag that you will also throw away, but you won’t donate a dollar because it's a waste??

 

I’ve decided I don’t like Mocha Man.

 

I’m sure that woman who is obviously 50, but dressed like she is 30 and tell people she is 40 that is in line behind Mocha Man won’t be a favorite of mine either, but I am going to give her a fair chance. Wait, is that a DOG in her PURSE?! i don't belong here.

 

 I turn to the man who has entered behind me in line, “I can’t decide on what I’d like. You can go ahead.” I say with a smile. “Thanks!” He says with a raised eyebrow as though nobody is ever friendly in this establishment. His eyes are beautiful. They are unlike any blue I have ever seen.  When he sees that I have noticed his disbelief of my charity, he winks at me and flashes a smile. Gorgeous as well. I’m stuck. I can’t move. “Thanks..” he says again, but this time he is looking at me with his eyebrows both raised and a smirk. He is urging me to move with his head, but I can’t. I’m really stuck. Holy crap in a coffee shop, I am stuck to the ground by the gaze of this man. He’s caught me. He doesn’t see it though.  My mind goes back to the boy behind the counter with the facial hair that resembles vagina stubble from an actress in a 1970’s porno laying  a burrito sleeping back. I come back to the real world. “Sorry… you look familiar, but I’m obviously wrong. My bad.” I say and step to the side.  “No worries, lass.” He tells me with the damn wink again and a fake irish accent. I giggle. Like a f*****g school girl! What’s the matter with me?

 

I move behind him in line and as I do he removes his cap. Yes, cap… not a fedora, not a ball cap, not a stetson, a cap. Like a cab driver or a page boy. It’s plaid and adorable and in the split second I watch his hands pull it from his head I notice that there is a faint line of light blue in the pattern. I tell myself that this small amount of blue was merely complimenting his eyes and I did NOT see my whole future and unborn children in the most shockingly dark and playful eyes I have ever seen.  As his hat sings, “Wheeeee…..” as his left hand (unfortunately with a golden band on it‘s ring finger) swoops it down under his right arm, said right arm makes a sweeping motion through his hair. I catch of whiff of Aussie hairspray and coconut on top of a cologne I don’t recognize. My nose also picks up the tingle that the makers of masculine deodorant know just the right amount of to put into the tube to drive women to want to sleep in their boyfriends t-shirts and hoodies.

 

Poochie Purse is ordering. I can’t hear her over the my own thoughts. I am imagining nuzzling my nose into the hair on the back of the head I am seeing in line in front of me right now. It’s the early morning and the sun is entering our hotel room. The sliding glass door is open and I can hear the tourists down on the floor level already playing in the waves that lulled us to sleep. I inhale deeply and can smell the natural scent of his scalp mixed with coconut shampoo, sunblock and the ocean we played in for hours the day before. I nuzzle closer and he moans and says, “April, I love you.”  “ Medium house, just black.. I’ll add my own fixing’s and yes, I will donate a dollar, but you can have my bag.” Wait… what???

 

  I snap back. I look over at the pick up window and Poochie Purse is holding a concoction that is at least 8 inches tall with a domed lid that is close to spewing a large amount of whipped cream out of the top from the force of the straw going into it and the blasted drink is green like the food babies refuse to eat but keeps getting made year after year.  Blue eyes has ordered, he is paying and dropping a five dollar bill into the tip jar. Vagina stubble face grins. It’s the only tip in there and Blue Eyes got a $2.00 cup of coffee. He’s moving to the pick up counter as Poochie Purse is leaving. I can only see the back of his head as he side steps her and nods. She grins and giggles a bit. The dog growls lightly. She got the wink too. I’m insanely jealous and heartbroken. “I’ll have what he had.” I say to Vagina Stubble face as I point to Blue Eyes who is already doctoring his coffee at yet another bar topped with mounds of everything BUT cream and sugar. Blue Eyes hold his cup of coffee in his left hand, the f*****g left hand with the damned ring on it, places his cap on his head with his right and salutes me. No wink?  B*****d! How dare he play with my emotions?!  “See you tomorrow, Eddie!”, Vagina Stubble Face says as Blue eyes breezes past me.

 

Tomorrow?! My heart sings! Perhaps I will make this a usual stopping point now, or better yet, “May I also have an employment application?” I say as I give Vagina stubble my last $7. Two for the coffee and five for the tip of course.