I fully intended the day to be another of those 'living in paradise' days everyone talks about. Such a day as that has to begin with a steaming mug of the globally grown and locally roasted.
“Where’ve you been?” the barista asked, leaning across the counter with the conspiratorial gleam of someone about to dish state secrets.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“You’re two-timing us, aren’t you!”
“Can one actually two-time a coffee shop, Ahwet?” I replied, but she'd already launched into it.
She lowered her voice to better diss on a notoriously difficult, high-strung customer who, she claimed, “desperately needs to calm down.”
Apparently, the gentleman standing at the end of the bar, within earshot, had attempted a minor insurgency involving a fake loyalty card to pay for his absurd, hyper-specific order: a triple-pump lavender oat-milk macchiato heated to exactly 165 degrees.
Ahwet paused after each declaration, waiting for my validation. I offered the kind of noncommittal, diplomatic grunts reserved for political debates and amateur plumbing advice, trying desperately not to get drawn into a brewhaha.
“Can you believe someone actually drinks this stuff?” she demanded, shaking her head.
“Frankly," I whispered, "I hate lavender flavoring in coffee. "Jah Jah flavors should be nutty and nothing else.”
She blinked, having been momentarily thrown off script. “Really? Not even a splash of oat milk?”
“I used to drink oat-milk coffee,” I replied quietly, glancing down the counter to make sure I wasn't overheard. “But I stopped after mistakenly ordering oatmeal, rather than oat milk. Turns out, porridge-density brew is an acquired taste.”
Ahwet, however, was completely absorbed in her tale of the counterfeit punchcard. As she passionately reenacted the legalistic debate over coffee-card ethics, her hands seemed to work on autopilot—whirring, steaming, and pumping with theatrical flair. Within seconds, she’d put a lid on my cup, flashed a radiant smile, and wished me a wonderful day.
I scanned the café for one of my regulars, but the familiar cast of philosophers was nowhere to be seen. I pivoted on my heels, a move honed over decades of needing to be somewhere else in a hurry. A moment later, I was through the door and behind the wheel of Wind Horse.
I fired up the engine and pulled onto 3rd Street in one smooth motion. Bystanders would have been suitably impressed, had there been any out at this hour. Traffic was moving at a reasonable clip, giving me a moment to breathe. Just before crossing the bridge, I reached for my cup, peeled back the lid, and prepared to enjoy my foamy, hazelnut brew.
But it was not to be. My palate was instead assaulted by a botanical catastrophe: the frothy, steaming brew tasted suspiciously like a triple-pump lavender oat-milk macchiato, calibrated to exactly 165 degrees.
I stared in horror at the cuppa. Distracted by her gossip and seemingly bound by some immutable law of quantum physics, our two coffee orders had become entangled, and my hazelnut latte had collapsed into his lavender at the speed of gossip.
Somewhere in a nearby Wilmington district, a high-strung man sat in a traffic jam, staring into a cup of plain, nutty coffee, wondering why the universe had suddenly abandoned him. And I? I was crossing the Cape Fear River, drinking a lavender potpourri sachet.
'Entanglement,' Amy said, 'If this is the price of self-improvement, I recommend you stick to talking with stones in your mouth like that ancient Greek orator.'
I scanned the café for one of my regulars, but the familiar cast of philosophers was nowhere to be seen. I pivoted on my heels, a move honed over decades of needing to be somewhere else in a hurry. A moment later, I was through the door and behind the wheel of Wind Horse.
I fired up the engine and pulled onto 3rd Street in one smooth motion. Bystanders would have been suitably impressed, had there been any out at this hour. Traffic was moving at a reasonable clip, giving me a moment to breathe. Just before crossing the bridge, I reached for my cup, peeled back the lid, and prepared to enjoy my foamy, hazelnut brew.
But it was not to be. My palate was instead assaulted by a botanical catastrophe: the frothy, steaming brew tasted suspiciously like a triple-pump lavender oat-milk macchiato, calibrated to exactly 165 degrees.
I stared in horror at the cuppa. Distracted by her gossip and seemingly bound by some immutable law of quantum physics, our two coffee orders had become entangled, and my hazelnut latte had collapsed into his lavender at the speed of gossip.
Somewhere in a nearby Wilmington district, a high-strung man sat in a traffic jam, staring into a cup of plain, nutty coffee, wondering why the universe had suddenly abandoned him. And I? I was crossing the Cape Fear River, drinking a lavender potpourri sachet.
'Entanglement,' Amy said, 'If this is the price of self-improvement, I recommend you stick to talking with stones in your mouth like that ancient Greek orator.'
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