The Coffee Shop Man 1

I saw him from across the coffee shop. It was kind of a dumpy coffee shop. One of those out of the way hovels where prissy hipsters come to brood and commune. It smelled like coffee; an attractive, but distinctly bitter smell. Similar to the man who just walked in. He was balding, but his rock of a chin more than made up for this trivial shortcoming. It was one of those chins that allowed male movie stars to star in romantic roles well into their fifties, simply because of the chin-painted illusion that they haven’t lost any of the masculinity from their decades old prime.

I tried to make out what he ordered. The stupid staff in this joint takes really takes their sweet time in making drinks, and by the time they were done I had forgotten that I ever cared about what his drink was at all. Thanking his server, he swept his stiff leather coat in a slight, dangerous swirl and strolled out the way he came in. Smooth jazz began to play over the tinny speakers in the ceiling.

I watched the man stroll back to his ride from my window seat. A black Escalade, of all things. Any doubt that his shades cast about his identity was quickly brushed away after one caught a glimpse of his car. Subtle indeed.

Finishing my drink, I waved away a nearby degenerate who felt that it was his duty to tell me all about how he spent his irrelevant weekend, and was about to drop my glass cup on the counter and leave, when the guy in the corner raised the hat off his face.

I hesitated. Not good. My mind quickly churned out the potential results to my walking away, not reacting, and not giving in to my curiosity prodding at my brain. Thankfully, my mind has a habit of churning fast. I turned my awkward delay into an order for a refill. The cashier passed my used glass back to his coworker, his eyebrow arching at my insistence not to use a clean cup. You say it’s weird, I say it saves me $0.05 on my drink.