Coffee Shop

I sit here, in this place, this coffee place, and I see. I see people. I see all kinds of people. People walking, people standing, people sitting. No people running, though. One person wheeling, though.

I hear people. People talking, people walking, people banging things in the kitchen.

I notice people. I notice the girl in glasses and a light blue shirt swinging her bag back and forth as she stands in line. I notice the stylish couple and their teenage son eating some recently purchased fudge. I notice the pretty high school girl five feet to my left, across the way, talking on her phone. I notice her unattractive attitude as she speaks to someone perhaps very far away. I notice the young couple pushing their toddler son down the street, toys and juices close at hand. I notice the businessmen, the college girls, the asians, the high school daters. I notice the bearded, the booted, those wearing hats, those wearing sunglasses.

The place is a bee’s nest. With little and big bees coming and going and standing and buzzing and waiting in line. There is much here, and I delight in the knowledge that there is a potential for anything to happen.

Options. Options are here, in this place, this coffee place. What will happen next? What will I see? What will they do?

The air outside is cool. A breeze shifts the light green leaves in the trees vigorously. The thin branches sway. But the sun is shining bright, baking the two-story brick buildings and the black lampposts in the square. It is an inspirational kind of weather. The kind of weather that makes the beauty come out of everything and gives a pleasant aura to the world. It is storybook weather. It is the type of day that lovers go on adventures.

The people outside the large glass window make eye contact with me as they pass. I sit at this small, wooden table, writing. And wondering, what kind of bee would I be?


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