Coffee with indecisiveness
The anticipation of the morn brew is currently of excruciating magnitude, like those final few momentous clicks near the apex of a horrifyingly colossal roller coaster when you know the greatness of what’s to come. If one was able to magnify the 10,000 taste buds calling my mouth home, proudly standing atop their papillae, you’d undoubtedly be witnessing each of them zealously stage diving on to one another, joyfully being crowd-carried amongst themselves as they await their favorite grunge band, Mocha Flood, to enter the stage. What now stood between me and my future grail of deliciousness was the one woman you never want to find yourself behind in this particular circumstance, God bless her. It was she, Ms. Indecisive, a title she holds as hers and hers alone, seemingly holding all of the cards now; somehow I think she was very conscious of this power she routinely wielded.
We all aspire to avoid her, likely early on in our suburbial commutes while having hopeful thoughts of our caffeinated ventures; at times literally opting to covertly reverse course upon entering our java chamber of choice to return at another time if we see that she has indeed appeared. She arrives alone today as she routinely finds herself, a hulking, wicker-like purse achingly dangling from her left shoulder, noticeably irritated today by desert-like dryness in her eyes likely brought on by seasonal allergy. I’m directly behind her on what was previously a delightful morning, my obligatory bubble of comfort space firmly intact, and I immediately launch my sequence of mindful thoughts and closed-eye breathing to avoid the unsettling impatience within me that seeks to emerge and voice its discontent. She takes what feels like a few rotations of the Earth to apply eye drops she magically has handy, jerking epileptically as each airborne plop hits their target as if they were individually reinforced with maximum security electric fencing. Perhaps she should consider another brand; I’ve never observed anything quite like it and regret not immediately capturing it on some social media outlet I don’t know how to use, but that would be mean-spirited and rather unlike my true nature.
“What can I get for ya’?”, the adolescent barista inquired.
It begins with an extended exhale slowly escaping from the bowels of her respiratory system, like the one you release when your primary care physician asks you to breathe out, only much more calculated, dramatic, measured and not of human likeness, rather akin to some alien creature I’d suggest. Unnatural, forced, audibly loud enough for the maturing line behind me to collectively hear and ponder further. It’s quite possible one or two of those tolerantly waiting might actually feel for her safety after audibly registering her once-captive winds. She shifts weight to her other foot, uncomfortably maintaining equilibrium upon refurbished, red-tipped high heels, as if redistributing the balance of her frame to her right somehow influences the challenging choice she’s about to make public. At least that’s my hope.
“Can you tell me your tea options again?”
Given the articulately handwritten, wall-length chalkboard directly in front of all those awaiting their caffeinated treasure, I almost bring myself to read aloud from it at a fortissimo volume her available catalog of beverage candidates to desperately allow life to proceed. I hesitate, though, when I see a physical glimpse of a sudden detour in her active internal deliberations, her lips pressing together as if to shape a forthcoming phrase.
“Oh…never mind…I’ll just go with a large coffee. Leave some room please.”
“Would you like our house or our new Ethiopian bold option, freshly roasted just yesterday?”
Oh no…and things were just starting to go in our mutual favor. She had decidedly moved from a state of bewilderment to a climactic threshold of resolution, and now this.
“Hmm…am I able to get a sample of the bold?”
I’m now sensing the early stages of withdrawals evolving deep within me, the need for my diurnal fix weighing heavily upon the entirety of my being. Remaining calm here for the moment, at peace with my first-world dilemma, the collective group is now awaiting the imminent taste test which could sadly determine much of our remaining rest-of-day demeanor. Not making this up, but an instrumental version of ‘Killing Me Softly’ just vanquished whatever inspiring coffee rumblings had previously percolated the shop’s ambience.
At this point the once-invigorated barista was also noticeably impacted by Ms. Indecisive’s forthcoming words, her glances towards the elongating queue of cranky coffee connoisseurs now on a more involuntary, jittery cadence. She oddly accepted the cup with both hands as one might accept a herculean championship trophy and offered us an unhurried peek of her own, as if to publicly bathe in the influence she indisputably had over each of us. Her lips embraced the paper rim and she slowly tilted her head back, sipping, swishing, swallowing, considering, evaluating and sipping again.
“This’ll do…”, she declared what seemed like hours later, plainly satisfied with her judgment, her face accentuated with an eerily wide smile that turned her brows into disturbingly sharp upside-down ‘V’s.
I noticed later the appropriate methodology in which she selected the credit card with which to pay, the chair in which to recline, even the corner of her table on which to set her bold libation. Uniquely attentive and peculiarly deliberate, and someone I had to share with you today. Looking forward to my next cup already, preferably with Ms. Indecisive standing behind me in the line. Until then…
