I enjoy sitting in coffee shops, especially on days like this when there’s steady drizzle and a gray sky. The temperature has dropped; Summer’s cocoon nearly formed, soon to enter a crispy Autumn. I’m reminded of days spent in other coffee shops in Brooklyn and London, and although I do not remember the specifics of those days, I feel that thing which connects this day to those—something heartfelt, a pattering of mixed voices in the chest, the din of mixed conversation. I want to sit here and write—my words have been collecting like old firewood piled and forgotten—and listen to Adele sing about the rain and Bear’s Den sing about daughters remembering the words of their mothers: “Don’t cry, hold your, head up high, she would, want you to, she would, want you to, please.” There’s a sense of forgotten things in cafes, insulated and close to the soul; behind the sound of clattering glasses, there lies a memory.
She sings softly, her voice dips and drips with the sweet vibes of acoustic love songs. A young man sits nearby and pretends to read. But he is listening and his eyes secretly go to her.Share on X
There’s a long line now at the register. Young people and old people. Short people and tall people. Cool and conservative, tattooed and spectacled, quiet and loud—all of them waiting. There are more lattes than iced teas today, pumpkin-spiced and dusted with nutmeg, warmth for the belly, inspired by the weather. I wonder if the seasons take their cues from coffee shops. I wonder if Autumn is listening to the orders today, with every premature apple cider an extra ounce of bravado, and comes because we call it to come. I drink my iced coffee so Summer might gain pluck and last a little longer. Perhaps I’ll drink a latte tomorrow.
We sit in lumpy sofas and benches and high stools looking out onto the wet street. A young woman plays a guitar. She sings softly, her voice dips and drips with the sweet vibes of acoustic love songs. A young man sits nearby and pretends to read. But he is listening and his eyes secretly go to her. She pats the guitar with the beat, gentle slaps with an open palm — he seems at great risk to crumble into pieces upon the floor. He doesn’t hide his smile.
One can fall in love with a great many strangers in coffee shops.Share on X
He imagines she sings to him alone. He doesn’t know her, but he loves the thought of her and that is enough. Soon she will leave with friends, he won’t ever speak to her, but there will be no regret, he will keep his smile. And if we don’t understand how this might be, perhaps we have stood too long in line. Stop waiting for that which is everywhere.
One can fall in love with a great many strangers in coffee shops.