Coffee Cups

Outside of the coffee shop, there is a man who belongs to the bench outside of it. Hair bushes slightly over his eyes. Though he still manages to eye me as I walk past. He barely budges when I approach, his long beard dangling from his cracking face. His worn-out flannel and gray torn jeans drop from his sides, and if I blur my vision just enough, he resembles a worn-out, dull Christmas tree. Though I don’t think much of him as I enter the coffee shop.

A group of people, ages most likely ranging from 55 to late 60s, two men, two women. Vivaciously talking about holiday plans and present arrangements for grandchildren. They jabber on for a moment longer, when a woman in a pretty pink and black blouse exclaims that she wishes she could bring herself back into her younger days. They soon all leave at 10:23 a.m., exchanging happy Thanksgiving wishes and hopes for safety and health for them and their families. At 10:32, a younger group of people in pretty clothing sit themselves at the table and talk about their younger ways.

A woman one table across from me works seriously on her computer. Looking up from her rather large setup to observe the shop every five minutes. Her clothing, though rather dark, is very mismatched, as she sits poised with her plum purples, authoritative navy blue, and annoyed reds. She is wearing an unusual wicker hat with large strands of itchy-looking yarn, fake red chrysanthemums adorning it on its top and sides. Though the flowers are fake, I recognize them. They were cultivated in China around the 15th century as a flowering herb. Each color of the chrysanthemum had meaning. Her red chrysanthemums meant love. I wonder whom it is for. She is by far the most colorful person in the room. She then shoots her eyes up into mine and finesses her lips into a pretty, faint smile. As we observe each other, we sip our coffee in unison. I bet she can read my mind.

A tired girl, who looks about the age of 19, sits on her high chair, at her mighty table, though her demeanor looks anything but high and mighty. Her coffee is clearly not doing its job as she leans her head against the palm of her hand. The effort of keeping her eyes open is the equivalent to her lifting 50-pound weights. White, glossy headphones adorn her head, like her own crown of exhaustion. Various stickers are plastered against her white laptop, one is a lightbulb with flowers bursting from its insides. She looks like she could use a bright idea. She’s still watching her computer.

A man who wears a gray AC/DC t-shirt stands in the coffee line. Long, worn-out jeans hang from his torso and fall onto his legs. The skin on his face seems to drop from his eyes and cheekbones. He places his order with his eyes super glued to his phone. He waits in line with his eyes latched onto his screen. He receives his coffee with a hushed thank you. He sips his coffee vigorously with his eyes blind to anything but his blue light. His own mind is unknowing to the world around him. And people say we are bad with our phones. He leaves at 10:54.

A woman sits at a table for two, alone. She is fancy yet casual at the same time, sporting a pretty pink blouse, the same color as her lipstick. She is pretty, with her clothes, her jewelry, her makeup, but she doesn’t cover up her natural beauty. She wears her beauty like a pendant, adoring and proud to display, passed down and protected beauty. I can’t imagine that her face could ever dim. Or her heart could ever be rejected. She looks as though she has plans for the day. Meeting someone? An event? A party? Or just feeling special? At 11:02 someone fills the seat next to hers.

A woman with glasses way too big for her face stands in line, gabbing and squawking on and on with mindless chatter with the woman next to her. Yammering like two hens with outdated haircuts. The pair looks dressed for the upcoming football game. After they both order drinks with obscene amounts of drizzled chocolate and caramel, the woman begins to brag about her children, her family, her house, her job, her life. No wonder she has such big glasses to cover up the lies that hide behind them. At 11:04 she sits outside, continuing the charade.

A young boy smushes his face up to the glass, pointing at various confections. Whining about the fickle invisible forces that keep the sweet delights out of his grasp. His mother quickly pulls him back from the glass, sternly telling him, “You shouldn’t touch the glass, workers have to clean that.“ Then proceeding to teach him that he should learn to touch with his eyes and not his hands. (What a confusing lesson to teach a child.) She then sits him down on a cushioned seat and plops a screen in front of his face, letting him touch a whole new world with his eyes. Still, I catch the boy looking at me in the distance at 11:15. He doesn’t look at his screen again.

A bright-looking couple and their silent baby place their order with the barista. They talk, make jokes, and play. Bubbly, energetic, and full of hope. My mother talks to the perfect couple and their pretty, perfect little baby. The conversation elicits smiles from both of the parents. I wonder what kinds of darkness hide under those pinned-up smiles.

Two women talk solemnly in a corner. As if they are contemplating the secrets of the universe. They sit opposite one another, one dressed in all beige, the other in a long, navy blue dress, red cherries printed all around it. I can’t catch what they are talking about, but by the looks in their eyes, I can tell it’s something serious. Seriousness turns into disapproval as the woman in all beige stares at me disappointedly. Well, not at me, but more at my bare shoulders on display. Why not look at my eyes? They are far more interesting than my shoulders.

The baristas shuffle back and forth on their designated islands, talking with each other in their own part of the world of making coffee and heating pastries. Only making contact with the other side when someone places an order. Then going back into their own world again. For all I know, they are still there.

A man enters the coffee shop. He looks to be about the age of 70. He is simply dressed, with black pants and a gray wool shirt. Atop his head though sits a snappy black fedora. He reminds me of the black and white films of the 60s about mysteries and murders. Popping out of his screen for a quick run to the local coffee shop. I am close enough to hear him order his simple, hot black cup of coffee. His voice sounds as though it was grated with sandpaper, and the lines of his face remind me of an old map that belonged to a journey I once traveled with him. His lips a cracked curtain of the stories that hide within his body. His eyes fill with joy as he receives his simple black coffee. As if he had just received the purest, happiest treasure of the universe for only $2.99. At 12:03 he leaves before I can see any more. I hope he is doing well.