Cold Coffee Afternoon
I sit in Starbucks most afternoons, pretending to read the Wall Street Journal. I drink coffee, but I don’t love coffee. Their dark roast is too bitter on my tongue. I sit here anyway because if I didn’t come here, I would be three doors down at the Tin Roof or two blocks away at Loser’s Pub. I miss the bourbon, but one DUI was enough for me. At least the caffeine gets me through the dinner hour and sometimes, all the way to the ten o’clock news.
Starbucks, when you get a good seat, is a great place to watch people come and go. At this hour, it’s mostly women in early middle age, blonde slim and beautiful. They one-up each other constantly; pulling up in high-end SUVs, wearing expensive jewelry and designer jeans. There’s this one woman, I imagine her name is Sydney, who comes to Starbucks and orders a caramel apple spice, grande every time. I’m crazy about her.
She’s pretty, but different than the other ladies. Her hair is dark. She’s short too, slightly plump, possibly Hispanic. And, she has an interesting face. Since its Tuesday, today is her day. I’m watching the parking lot. I know she drives a white Infiniti sedan. I’m going to order her a caramel apple spice, pay for it and ask the barista to tell her it’s paid for.
She’ll turn and she’ll smile like we know each other well. I’ll invite her to join me. She’ll feel safe. Somehow she knows I need someone to talk to. I’ve watched her linger, fumbling through her purse to find her keys, casting furtive glances around the room like she is hoping to run into somebody. She hasn’t actually acknowledged me, in spite of my welcoming smile. Still, like me, she doesn’t fit in here.
My cup is still a quarter full, but cold. It’s 3:10 already. My Spice Girl is running late and she should be here by now. I get up and walk to the counter. I’m not an old man, but I think the barista, a man in his 70s, looks younger than me. He’s always here on Tuesdays too.
“Another double ristretto espresso?”
“Yes, and let me pay you for a grande, caramel apple spice while I’m here. I’ll tell you when to make it.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. Sotto voce he says, “Too late Mr. Wall Street.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s not coming.”
“How do you know that?”
The barista hesitates, but then takes pity on me. “She moved to Florida.”
I feel disoriented. You see somebody every Tuesday for months. You create a history for her filled with triumphs. Add a few rough spots for texture, ones that that you smooth over. The barista hands me my change. “When?”
“Yesterday. She told me to say goodbye if that helps.”