The Reluctant I

Everyone loves a good coffee shop. Finding a good one might be more of a problem. There's Starbucks, who a loyal Dutch Bros fan wouldn't be caught dead in. There's Dutch Bros, who the typical Starbucks follower fails to know the existence of. Then, there's the local coffee shops, the holes in the walls, the stand alones, and the caffinated pubs. Those are the best to go. The Bean is my usual haunt.

A different world sits inside, an alternate stage with unusual characters. Not a single hero shows up here. Every patron has a skeleton in their car, some with cat bones, others with an ex-friend's remains. Others have their hopes and dreams grounded up into pale powder, others have burned their bone bridges into ash and keep them in jars. Sitting on a stool means more than sitting down. It means leaving your weight and saying to yourself "I belong." Most likely the scenery will believe you.

The coffee? It's magic. Each puff of steam is made of dying clouds and the sugar comes from stardust. When the barista hands the cup to the guy at the other end of the counter, its like she's giving him a kiss. The kiss isn't a casual Nice-To-See-You, it's a fierce You-Belong-To-Me kiss. She lets go of the cup fast, so only a regular will recognize the spark. In fact, the barista does it to every customer, as long as they're male. Girls get a knowing I-See-That-Once-Over-You-Gave-Him smile, but the barista refuses to compete with them. She saves her kisses for the hand-off. Guys are fair game after that.

The guy on the end? He comes in every other day, after his last writing class. His mustache twitches as he plops down on the stool, and a wry grin forms not on his lips, but in his eyes. After giving the barista a nod for his order, he flips open his journal, and writes. He etches careful letters across the page and he frowns deliberately every time. Most guys order a deep, black, coffee, but he only orders a white-hot chocolate. It sits idle, longing on the counter for his touch, but he ignores it for at least three pages. Then he takes a sip and the room sighs with relief, though it knows he'll always come around eventually.

He never turns to look across the counter. The journal is his lover, his attention, his aim, his all.