The baristas are closed-fisted and shuffling back and forth—no, they’re more than baristas here. There’s a wooden bar and wooden handles. They all smile. The coffee fart odor is nowhere. The smell is a good smell. After work and jumping over slushy piles of snow in the eight snowiest winters New York City’s ever had. I’ve sat back long enough to see the barista’s job isn’t that easy. There are too many nobs and things to remember—not to mention you spend your days drenched in the stench of coffee (for some that’s wonderful).
I got one of the Rwandan coffees—“French Press”, I tell the girl. She offers free cup of coffee. Too much coffee and caffeine today…I pass, before my face turns into a raisin instantly.
“Gosh, don’t you love the smell?”
I turn to find the voice. The smell is what I found first. Deep brown coat is before me and I foresee flies bursting from beneath the coat if the confetti-headed man were to undo a button.
“Yes, yes. I love it.” he steps closer and I hold strong. The girl’s hoping she finishes before my heart becomes rude because my nose tells it to. Where does the brain go here—thinking : I should wait for the coffee, mornings aren’t important—coffee the greatest thing about mornings.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked me. should I tell him off? Should I leave? the smell (the coffee)—so good.
“You’re in a trance, I take it,” he says.
The coat falls open. I don’t smell anything.
“Sir, how about that free cup of coffee?” I wiggle my head once.
“No, no. I said I didn’t want that cup,” I said.
“Well, I handed your order to you to take to the register and your friend left with it.”
What should I have for breakfast tomorrow? Eggs, bacon (gross), toast, bagels (butter or jam?)? Oh. It doesn’t matter.
“Yes, I’ll take that free cup.”