I went to my usual coffee place today and decided to scribble down a few thoughts about it. I'm there about once a week writing and working:
My blue cotton scarf looks so vibrant draped across the the rich, cherry wood chair illuminated by a beam of white winter sun pouring in the window. It's warm today, but the sun isn't spring sun quite yet.
There is an incessant hiss and whir of the heater and the coffee makers-- the fruits of which leave a smokey, bitter taste on my tongue. Stirring spoons clatter against metal cups and then drip through the frothed milk on the lattes. It's a cacophony in the quiet shop.
Everyone here knows me by face, if not name. It is a cliche, but it makes an odd sort of sense. When a writer needs a haven that home cannot provide; where else is there to go? It's to the coffee house where you can sit among the din of music and conversation, sipping at the biting, but pleasurable hot drinks and working uninterrupted. It's my natural habitat, the paper coffee cups, the bagels, the endearing young staff, the public solitude.
It's an out of the way, indie place, that I might just dedicate my first book to. Enough of it has been drafted between these walls. I owe them for their shelter, their inexpensive high quality stimulant beverages, and their tolerance for letting me make a two hour drink last all afternoon with my books spread across their table tops; me staring into space, sighing, and inventing characters based off the other customers. So, here's to Patrick, Samantha, Jeremiah, and the rest of the staff who are unwittingly helping me on my way to becoming a novelist. Starbucks can just go jump in a lake.