"Coffeeshop (1 of ?)"

You walk in from the too-bright parking lot and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. You're in a daze. Information about the new interior environment in which you find yourself slowly creeps into conscious awareness. You stumble up to the counter on your left with tunnel vision. Luckily, there's someone ahead of you in line, so you have a moment to collect yourself before you're expected to say words to the barista. You've gotten into the habit of dumbly asking for a "large coffee" at every coffeeshop you visit, because that's always easy enough to interpret.

The person in front of you was already wrapping up their order and paying when you walked in---enough time to register the menu and for you to stare blankly at it for a moment before walking up to the counter, but not enough time to decipher any of what it actually says.

"Hi, I'd like a large coffee?"

"... sure, for here or to go?"

"Oh, uh, I'll be here!" You smile wildly and gesture broadly, pointing down to your feet as you say "here," in case they couldn't hear you. You know your eyes are wild, and you cringe internally at the clumsy phrasing. The barista is kind enough to gently return a practiced, professional smile, not entirely insincere but also not particularly concerned with you.

"Feel free to have free re-fills with this mug. We have dark, medium, and light roasts, all behind you. There's sugar and milk there too. We also have half and half, if you'd prefer me to get that for you."

"Yeah, half and half sounds good!" You didn't quite register everything he said. He smiles a little again and walks away from the counter to get the half and half, and you pick up the ceramic mug he set on the counter and whip around to see the three big carafes behind you. Details continue percolating into your awareness; you go toward the light roast at first, then see that they have a "flavor of the day" and switch over to that carafe. You study the contraption and identify the lever you have to push and the spigot where the coffee comes out, and start to squeeze out a reasonable amount for the size of your mug, and you still feel like a dumb animal for how slowly you're moving. You wonder, not for the first time, if the barista thinks you're stoned or a retard or just very anxious or what. When you turn around, the half and half is already on the counter and looks weirdly out of place, and you don't want to inconvenience the barista any further, so you quickly (intently watching the contents of the mug so as not to spill; you almost spill a little when you stumble in your steps walking up the counter) pour what seems like a reasonable splash into the mug. You carefully screw the cap back onto the carton and say, not quite "to" him but at least in the right general direction, "I'm good, thank you!"

You make real eye contact with the barista---a handsome Latino man, maybe in his late 20s, with thick, lightly styled black hair---for the very first time as he comes back over for the half and half. He smiles again, warmly, as his eyes briefly meet yours, and the smile again seems entirely sincere while also having nothing to do with you personally. His seemingly effortless professional friendliness almost unnerves you---at least, it embarrasses you---and you sheepishly proceed to the back corner of the room where there's a secluded high table for two by a window. You pull out your trusty blue folder, take out a fresh sheet of loose-leaf college-ruled notebook paper, and start to write, quickly forgetting about the barista's presence. He glances over at you from time to time without you noticing, head bent down as you scribble inscrutably small print.

Then there's another customer---sitting at your table, you half-eavesdrop on the order in the midst of writing a run-on sentence you know you'll probably delete or at least have to revise later, about the view of the car windshield reflecting bulbous, grayishly stormy and towering but isolated cumulonimbus clouds passing by in the bright blue summer sky above, which windshield's reflection you can see from your vantage out the window---and the barista offers his same knowing, warm, light and professional smile, which you can't see but still clearly hear in the tones of his casually commanding voice. You pause after finally finishing the pointless sentence and absently wonder, in some deep, pre-conscious space, what it would be like---your mechanical pencil hanging tentatively over the page and the barista moving with professional precision and clarity behind the counter, making a strawberry-banana-mango smoothie (the blender is very loud) for the young woman in sunglasses you can't glean much more about from your single furtive glance over, the barista's eyes vivid and focused on the task---before starting another paragraph, your thoughts digressing wildly again, the next paragraph about the winding Google Maps route you took on country roads to arrive here.

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