Tom Meitner

The bell rings as the door swings open. The wood floor rubs against the bottom of the door, and it briefly hesitates before slamming shut. She exhales heavily, as if she is sighing upon realization that she is here again. Maybe she swore to herself that she would kick caffeine and never turn back. She could have tried to quit cold turkey but was just too weak-willed. I’m glad she wasn’t, because it would have meant there was nothing to look forward to in the afternoon.

But today, she unbuttons the big black buttons that hold her charcoal coat tight against her chest. The rush of cool air finally makes its way across the room as other patrons shuffle in their seats and grab their coffees and hot chocolates to recover from the blast.

She steps up to the counter. Her stride personifies the phrase, “spring in your step”, as she bounces on the balls of her feet. Like clockwork, she does this every single day - just after 2:00pm. Today, the sunbeams are trying to push their way into the coffee shop. Baristas have dropped the blinds halfway down the windows in a vain effort to fight back against the blinding warmth. Warm customers don’t buy coffee.

She asks for coffee with a pinch of cinnamon. The barista smirks while looking down at her register, approving of the order, and knowing what it was going to be before she even opened her mouth. The order is cute without being overbearing. Nobody likes those, “half-caffeine, mocha latte with low-fat whipped cream and chocolate drizzle”-people. Those are the people who order drinks just to say that they were in a coffee shop, even though their drink tastes nothing like coffee. But not her. She likes to taste that bitterness, curbed ever so slightly by the sweetness of the cinnamon. It’s like people who drink scotch with a tiny splash of water.

As she slides over to the pickup counter, she shoves her hands into her pockets and gazes around the room. Her eyes meet mine, and she reaches up to adjust her glasses. The corners of her mouth pull up into a hypnotizing smile, and her eyes buckle under the pressure of her cheeks, squinting slightly. The subject of her smile nods and peers down at the newspaper. Regardless of whether or not there is an opportunity there, it’s not going to be today.

The barista thanks her and hands her the coffee. She returns the thanks, grabs the coffee, and strides out the door, breaking the atmosphere of the room once again with the loud scrape of the door and the wall of cold air that punches everyone inside. She walks past the window en route to wherever she goes when she leaves here every day. No car. No bike. Rain or snow, she walks. Either she lives nearby or she is interested in keeping herself in shape. Maybe both. The wind snaps her hair straight back, but she pauses briefly to partake in her cinnamoned coffee, which must taste like heaven when walking around out in those temperatures.

Her life is a mystery. No one knows where she comes from or what her story is. No one knows what she does for a living, or why she comes in every day at the same time.

She might be interested. She might be looking for a friend. She might be looking for someone special. She might be able to find all of those things in that coffee shop on any given day of the week, from the same guy that makes eye contact with her every day.

But it’s not going to be today.