Cafe
I drink a large black coffee in a to-go cup and a double shot of espresso. In the early days of COVID, I began requesting the espresso to give me an excuse to leave a larger tip and the habit stuck.
In this cafe, I drink my coffee from paper, despite the environmental implications, because their ceramic cups are unusually wide. This is not a good way to drink coffee, as it cools too quickly. Coffee cups should be tall and narrow.
On the cafe's bookshelf, there is a book on Tiki culture. After, glancing at the pages, I ask the kindly barista if I can buy it. He hesitates and tells me I can borrow it. I was hoping he would tell me I could just have it, or that I can swap it with something of my own. Now, I have to consider. Do I add it to my library, with a sense of guilt for being a thief? Do I convince myself I'll borrow the book indefinitely? Or do I read and return? Really, I don't just want to read the book. I want to own it.
A man walks in and I can hear voices on his cell phone. He is listening to a podcast or a lecture or a police scanner. He walks up to the counter and orders that way, oblivious of the racket he is creating.
Driving home, I see someone walking along the road who, from a distance, looks like a mountain man -- a big bundle of fur. However, I get closer and it's a woman dressed in a large, spotted coat. She's wearing a big hat and walking a dog. In her left arm, she's carrying a child, also dressed in a thick winter coat. I wonder at her strength, carrying the child on one side and managing the dog's leash with the other. And I wonder what drives her out to walk along the road, in subzero temperatures, a day so cold everyone is taking to social media to post pictures of their weather apps.
In a parking lot near a field I write my first blog post in over a decade. The field extensive. Underneath a crust of snow are two baseball diamonds. But I don't see a single set of footprints. This doesn't seem possible. The icy winds blow no trash across its surface. Even the trees are shivering.
