Made to Order

As soon as I walked into the shop from the brisk autumn afternoon, the syrupy aroma of coffee worked its way from my nose, to my tongue, and all the way down to the very core of my body. After a single breath, I could feel the medicinal effects of the shop place. This elated feeling of peacefulness made it easy to settle into my routine. I unraveled my scarf, took off my coat, and hopped onto the counter seat with a menu in hand. Despite not needing it, I casually skimmed my options. Latte. Americano. Iced Coffee. Cappuccino. The sunlight from the bay windows behind me warmed my red sweater; the cozy modest room seemed to come to life as the laughing pictures of guests hung joyously on the walls behind the register, reminding all of us of the best moments in the shop.

“The usual?” Theresa, a dark haired barista, laced with tattoos asked. I nodded my head in response, sliding the menu back to her. Her eyes landed on mine for a moment, confirming the order, then quickly grabbed the turquoise mug hanging above her and phlegmatically poured the rich, bitter poison into a mug. The slick polished countertops made her drivery seamless.

A woman to my right, with a crooked smile and swept up silver hair looked at me, “Not many young people like it black anymore.” I smirked as I slowly placed the steaming mug up to my lips. I held eye contact with her as I filled my lungs with the bittersweet steam. Her order came out next. Without looking down at her steaming mug, I realized I knew this woman; she was a light roast with two sugars, no cream. She came here probably once a week, twice when it was cold, evident by her half filled punched card that dated back months ago. I didn’t know her name, but I connected her presence to her order.

Another regular entered: a cat-like woman with winged glasses and a jet black, short bob accenting her sharp features. She pawed through her purse looking for cash. Her graceful gait made her movements from the door to the tip jar an enigma. She did not walk from place to place but instead appeared. As she meowed her order, I instinctively knew she would say, “americano with extra cream and sugar, please”. Theresa handed her the order giving her the silent nod, confirming the exchange as she did for all of her guests.

While nursing my drink, I realized that I knew most of the people around me, not by their individual names, but by their drink orders. Theresa unknowingly had created a miniature city within the cafe, calling all people, from every walk of life. There were teen girls with pin straight hair and boho dresses sitting in the back taking pictures of their expertly crafted marshmallow frappes. Then there were workers, with bags underneath their eyes, staring wistfully at the youthful girls, waiting for their 2 o’clock double shot pick-me-ups. And of course, there were the “experienced” coffee drinkers, with salt and pepper hair sipping on the same black poison I had grown accustomed to. They would stare at their newspapers, casually listening to the conversation around them, contemplating offering their wisdom, but only speaking when necessary. I landed somewhere in the middle: a curious, quiet, coffee-lover.

I continued to watch as patrons came in and out of the little community⎼ my community. I looked down at my mug to see small bits of coffee grounds forming an unknown shape, before I even had time to react, Theresa already made my next cup to order. This perpetual chain of hot drinks kept me there⎼kept the community there.