The barista
is eating his dinner (or late lunch? It’s 4:30). I smile as I approach the counter and say, “Sorry to interrupt!” He sets down his food without returning my smile and steps behind the cash register, nodding to me to recite my order.I feel cold, like I’ve been out in the sun too long and now am lost and trapped outside as the sun sets and the heat escapes from the earth, from my bones. I dictate my order to the unfriendly barista, smile-free, and wait as he prepares it. I sit down at a chair facing the counter, where the barista is making a fresh pot of coffee.
I glance over at the cyclists sitting on the couches in the opposite corner. One of them nods and grins. My cheeks slightly tighten into one of those half smile acknowledgments as I glance back to my book.
Looking back to the barista, I sigh, and watch as he goes about his work.
